To move to the other side of the globe,
Create my vehicle like a carrying case.
To instil the sword you must cry and die,
So that first you succeed, second you triumph.
To work with wonders and miracles,
You must define the art of make-believe.
In the circle of innocence you must describe
The writing of the rhapsodes, ill men
Who fought for words, their disease was small.
To movements we replay the old crimes,
Morals shine as the torturers of old signs
Rely on the masters of a day in fight.
I have a globe of innocence this time of day,
Nights are nights, daylight is the prime habit.
I wanted positions of stupor and vivid delights,
Innocent talks and conversations of right.
I wished for the opposite trance, the negated
Effect of another winter in the rain.
What is the solution to the storm at night?
A night is wrecked inwardly, to sights of glory
Is the return of a sailor who is ruined.
My reason for living is too polite in the ways of
Men who travel ceaselessly towards the horizon,
Where storms persist and the losers perish.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem