The shaft. hollow. gelatinous. Salty, but sweet.
a protruding bite
yet all the while a state of purity so relaxed presumes like a
butterfly carried by the presumptuous wind....
The boundaries dismissed by a compelling drive to fall into the
shaft, forward and profitable.
covered again until the wind arrives with only nectar on the
belly of a bee to yet another place, the window, the eye of
expectation. A gaze.
For people, places and things devour the pure release of
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem