Focusing was a bore of this winter,
The cytology of this place called the body
Was as spread out as the winter's edge,
The toga must be worn, it must be dawn!
The sleep of an astrologer wakens him further,
He dreams of youth and young matters
Altogether to be stars and signs of their lives,
The whole life can now be an outbalance.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem