The dykes pinch the insides offering a whisper on the lumps
That are ridden inside the hearts of the soil.
My enzymes split and train forwards,
The dykes are much like trenches of the soil
With wars and whispers whimpering,
Little has zero, nothing bothers in the same tongue.
For the pre afternoon electrifies and suits
The day of the whole knowledge and wisdom,
This soil is my own, and it makes me recite the prayers
So pseudo heroically, that glasslike minds are a burst.
Close and personal is the land or soil of your undertaking,
Harmoniously filling a train of thoughts to accomplish.
I was non-resisting, with the hierocracy
That minded their priesthood,
And wanted hypnotherapy.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem