My own first song blew like a trumpet,
The small was the divine, the larger
Foil commonly made the shining ray.
Many shells talked of their wetness,
My smile acted like the sharp knives,
My love was a first song, the very initial
Long tongue, that sang rightly.
My first song was a reality, a real gesture
To think of the pleasure given to heaven;
My first song abstained from pleasure,
It coincided with the only righteous men
Who swore to the whole goodness,
Who swung to tree after mountain, boiling
The stew, when first the sweat broke.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem