To think how much lucky; ; of making with
'you which I'; to make against all the chance cry to think
of the mother, sisters like mothers their dreams divided
but never completely;
We making the blow and eye with morning fire
of famished hot obtain a balance in this momentary space
by words a poèt said he writes with his blood I with my small pica bodies to write in order to remember to be pointed out
our dreams our humility our noises making.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem