The optic nerve lies in a honey swamp
Like a cockroach sitting on his back,
Dancing with his feet in the sky
Tickling Venus onto her fragrant brocade hair,
Seductively smiling at Mercury, suspended in a spike,
Reading earthy poetry to Sirius.
And hop!
He jumps on the sleeping cloud,
Coated with a coffee-flower blanket,
Wearing beads of fine mist,
A cloud of aerated dreams,
Thrown there by men and angels,
Tailored from their hearts.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem