like dishonest servants
and professional prostitutes,
Need to change often, remain fresh always
And change their stale countenance,
the last night's deo of seductive looks.
Poems are the silhouette of raining lust
that turns the pages of history ahead,
Till the dog-eared page comes,
Where moons have never slept-
With lilies of their dreams,
But have walked on the dry eyes,
Lonely with the melting flesh
In a world of silent blankness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem