I am reading
Into a morning of spring
And I listen the forever young Montaigne
Refers to people and naked palaces,
And the way he analyzes the skeleton
That holds life
As a green branch that never withered.
I reach to hear the Diogenes's guffaws
In the joyful dance
Over a distant sadness landscape
That led it to think about himself
With none boasting,
And his love to living
Without the bitter mirror of his time
So similar to our days.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem