The slow motion of sunrise
Wept into the supplications addressed;
On a quiet open way,
The shadows streamed to their full,
And ate away in their full.
The middle-way accuses me,
Deception is no weapon for the ideals,
Understand the religion
That tongues are kept for
In their magnificence.
Telling of crimes and virulent acts,
Shows us the way to salvation,
Moments are festoons of gales
With them, ask their private life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem