Gastric liquids are only gel,
The castles of foam and trouble;
With the fuel of philandering
Cast your shadows on the mirror.
Then the mirrors wake us up,
Jostling with fine fibres and waking up.
These metallic weapons suffered,
We have stomachs of prayer,
Fasting is a ritual, one of the many.
Let the choice of your books
Be holy, in the way of the God.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem