I do not want to think.
Don't want to judge. Who am I.
Brooding savagely of death and laughing.
Out of the gloves, the hands
catch the butterflies to write a poem.
The blood dreams. I drop sleep.
Your smile was lethal.
I cannot kiss the moon. It was
cold to receive the hot flame.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem