people always
do not know the real us
we are always this
stuff inside
gold-plated and
on elaborate
inamoratas
people theorizes us
like some political guesses
revolutions that do not
materialize
peace that always trembles
on false alarms
we invoke the law of
our privacy
our intimate parts remain
hidden
in our fragile underwear
people do not know us
we have always been fearless and free
they sleep on their silly
speculations and we greet them with
smileys on the road
in the room i lean on a leather chair
rest my chin on my hand
and read the world from afar
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem