My arms stroke absurdly,
Absentmindedly, the heads
Of people are like grammar.
This is an abbey of faults,
My objection makes clear,
Then the effort of existence is made.
Custody is a selfish sort,
Let the cutlery be known after an art
Of some knowledge, the very noise.
Customs play more than the cushion,
Dairy products sting the tongue.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem