Mountains are burdened by the beauty of my climb,
Rain enters, snows confine, and storms arise, to steal
My imagination of the inner virtues and inner crimes.
Let this cloud filter the whole enigma, a beauty of run,
These clouds stomp on the shoulder, their gaze is complete,
Inside the semi-transparent globe throwing us in half.
We are on a trail of innocence, most beautiful children
Know these competences, their scales are brave and sincere,
But where is the cloth of the damned or the poverty of man?
Mounting the horse, we strive to stagger at loose cases,
Clouds after clouds blend into the surroundings of signs,
Their invincible inert gases feed us with burden after the rights.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem