We see according to our senses,
The attributes of the sick collaborate
To define an illness of the whole heartache.
One soul instils the righteous men
With ire and tests, so that an emotion
Describes their strife in the crucial sense.
One descends on the heart in the sleep,
It calls the dream a work of the hints.
The questions of books and the questions
Of authors enter the millions of heads
Containing grey and white matter.
Words dissolve in solvents of young hurt,
They deplore the friendly words of the stars
And stars like the sun, our very star.
The nonsense of beauty is to instigate
Poverty on the righteous soul,
The souls connect the chivalry to God.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem