O you hearer of my glad news, finish the honest gesture,
Expel the sheep of your dreams, excel in permissions.
Hunting is not permitted in this realm of the imagination,
One accuses me of sanctuaries too resentful and caught.
Just stay with the place of your birth, realise more thoughts
This time of the year and century, like a permission and gold.
Again, get nearer to me in your secret sleep, let gates open,
Like iron and clothes of innocence, so wear the metals and doing.
I must be in peace with you, my piety is an aggression to the
One blamed of all sin, the one who transgresses is puny.
Let the easter of your soul be a warner to many bodies of thoughts,
As if gold and silver are not enough to dissuade your beliefs.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem