Exiled to Siberia ofletters,
Talking with the tea steam,
I'm pulling the curtain of the deported poetry
In the newsstand across the street.
Only in the cellars of the soul
Imagination doesn't cost: Nothing!
I only pay the wet walls
Breastfed of the moisture of happiness
But only the criticism eats the lyrical canvas,
Without even knowing that the painter,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem