I don't know if that's good or bad.
I don't know if I'm happy or sad.
There's something unclear everywhere.
There seem to be a form of Hysteria
aggressing through the hyacinths and wisteria.
All one can love is the name of a flower
anarchy of opinion has exhausted all power.
A strong bond of sensibility has completely collapsed.
An invasion of our truth's dignity has unleashed and relapsed.
There's something bad in this June gloom sensation.
Hysteria and accusation have taken over our nation.
Everyone is now this way, "You're a Nazi if you don't agree with me today."
That's what people are like these days.
It's so icky and so inducing of malaise.
Lethargy droops from a lackluster moon.
Objective consicousness is overwrit by hysterical ruin.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem