do not say that you have nothing to do,
there are so many things to be done, to be fixed,
do not kill the clock, its hands are very much alive
like ours
do not silence its ticking, lest matters become
unbearable. The rope and the tree, the blades of
grass where dew await for the coming invisibility again,
glitter.
even in sleep our minds keep on going, our eyeballs play
a certain rhythm of the waves that arrive on the shore of
ourselves,
foaming....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem