I am about to create a feeling of strong angles,
With my fork and my spoons and knives the thought
Makes itself told to the other party, and they are numerous,
For to uncork the bottle is to say something dark,
The digging of the grave has begun, once again.
To be along the stairwell, we see higher the worry,
Inside the love of the house, that carries a wig.
Let the gazelle be a worry for me now that you're gone,
It jumps like you and compels me to sting the laughter.
Wear the lapel so pale and then silvery, in the light,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem