I'm indulgent soldier of feast
staying with no injury
by the forgotten trial
that thump its gavel
in the skull of all lonely men
I don't leave traces nor my abortive clone
in the tale that suffer the latest on row
I see them passing on tin plates
under hermetic lids of silence
At the bottom of a glass
the thirst corrupts me
and I loose my tongue in the hunger of time
with the wrong key of a hidden door
Among hiccupts and sighs
in the valley of fire I shoot at my feet
falling down on a lathe
that charges in human flesh
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem