Disentangling constellations at 1: 00 in the morning,
With a wreath of dead flowers at hand.
I watched the furious stars
Change colors debonairly
And I assume the condition of a dying maudlin
On a death bed inside a hospital
With no roofs to block the rain
From curdling and sculpting my feigned states
Of exuberance
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem