Your hand on your brain,
Your hand on your own,
This brain cries from a day
That forsakes a time of life.
This sentence is prose,
But my poetry forsakes you,
And my difficulties create
New joys that overwhelm.
Your hand is driven to death,
Deaths become a sanity,
Dead men walk towards the stars,
And the living shall erect monuments.
One life is enough to master
The world of words and wise
Answers, a solution becomes
A modern worry too exciting.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem