I allow myself to guide
like an afflicted fish
at the bottom of the stars
reflected in a tiny river.
I live of tales
for breathing a invented paradise
where I have only bites
with the latest apple.
My pleasure already
doesn't treat me with guffaws
It remain metallized and spherical
without tenderness forever.
I write and jumping to the empty
looking for my other self,
I am in average flesh,
I live against the light
with death in a sack
at a skull's throw
I walk towards the bullets.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem