Souls are a numbered few, who fly tonight in the heavens,
Men walk the plane, riding like the hawks of the sky;
Wherever you walk also fly for you are a soul that dies;
It is dying and death that astounds you enough,
That is why you see mighty fissures in the morning light.
These are the mistakes of your destinies,
Those behaviours are rampant and starting
To overflow like the sandy rivers and sweet fish in them,
Souls shall fix their stare on us who dive into the pits of steam,
Leaving too many mistakes that are errors of the deep.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem