On happiness the poets have rejected something,
Mortal natures inhabit the deprived like everything,
Speaking use of commodities beyond the region
That is beyond the reach of fields, wearing infinity.
Eternal is the hospital on the horizon,
This edge forms the nature of the past.
Inside the history of seconds there is the last
Year as a totalitarian motto, drowning in pity.
On thriving and staff-work, a little poet
Remains anonymous, like little feet of a line,
Letting orders manage a degree of order,
Lines shall tarry and clash to see them do innocence.
My sentences destroy one another,
Inside the stretch of time we call a hundred scenes.
On this happy note, a poetic minority
Capsized in their literary prison of a boat.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem