Sometimes thought could say nothing,
Smell of burning arrived, fully in action.
Then she thought of a saying to pleasure,
Letting flowers fall, feeling nobody but shaking.
Sometimes he went fast, sometimes slow,
There was a little match, tyranny called itself.
He felt himself transfixed, fully exploding
With the confined place, so differing, so flamed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem