Someone who divinely inspires another man is immortal,
And his heart contrives the best magic to offer another man.
Something enters the vein of desires so flesh-like, a rift
Appears so suddenly, that voices utter foul weather, like
A dream of the grave, of the cemetery that dwindles within.
The diminishing robe is a dress of brilliant artefacts, older
Than the rain and snow, younger than the forces of this world.
Where is my eye to this toil and turmoil, of the lesions of the brain?
My messages numberless, I write of pain and pleasure like the chair,
Installing my happy tune with accent so rare, little is my care, as
I join with others in full restorative spirit, so reforming is my guise.
Somebody is staring at my words of jolly keeping, so astounded
By the daring accomplishment of justice and perfect verbs;
They are so solid in their divisions and schisms that reiterate the page.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem