Stretching every idea and shaping it into other things, giving anyone thoughts of ice cold beings.
Socially independent, telling all the inevitable stories of yesterday's love potions that have turned to poison.
Catching the essence of every movement, allowing nothing to penetrate the outside portals of beings, sanctioned by inner icebergs, trailing after love is lost.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem