It never raises the ground to the air,
Opening the fountains of despair,
This mind is fused with the soul so finite
That it alone relates to the primary members
Of the political state.
My sound is echoed continuously for the
Glamour is waning as far as the horizon.
My views are met with glamour of the person,
The political fountain is extravagant of this day.
My own exercises feel the flute of disbelief,
That sings to the melody of the mountain.
Never does the ground rise up to meet the air,
Just so people vomit into cancers of distress,
Just so venom is the art of the living as enemies.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A powerful poem, a great write.