I just drank some amber spirits,
that burn with fossil nostalgia,
encumber with humdrum to long a child,
purged from a fertile womb.
Will you be that woman of country ideology,
whose mother instilled judicious dominion,
to forgive the immaturity of a raging sage,
and praise the doxology of youth.
Today I will be the obfuscation of reason,
the ambiguity to clarity,
a gaunt fragrance of indifference,
and at last the eyes that warm your heart.
Enough woman do not make me cry,
do not make me clamor,
do not make me dream with anxiety,
of the plumage that shrouds your silhouette.
I just want to raise the malefic curtain that confines your kindness,
see your flushed bosom cudgel mordantly with ambrosia,
ferment each minute of agony to elixir,
under a picturesque anvil cloud.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem