Knowing nothing surrounds us
We object to lotion and pain
Whistling is the option
Beautiful couples marry late
With knowledge all-secret
Far poorer than usual
Appearances matter when they deafen
The crowd of the striders
Of faith
My late hours sting them
For my marching is sound
And the waves of the instrument fail
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem