I greeted with hand the sun
would be kind for flowers
in my garden of an infatuations
where small birds are flying
about with clouds above the head
the thought extinguished a little flame
of the candle the flickering
so weak glimmer, cleared with tiny streak
as grey as the hour of the fate
it came true and nothing already has
but stayed of not-finishing
between fiction
and my life...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem