The purified fleets of nations have pulled in.
Christianized themes read out behind high, aroused doors.
With gladness I soothed your aristocracy.
I took the furtive towers of our thighs, made them public as ice.
While I go about my day a naked burn goes on, a hiss.
A clean, continuous tone. A hearing test.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem