Weeks of havoc cannot remember your perfumes—
Or the French poets against the over-perfect canals:
I swear, my wife will find me and have me
On my birthday—
Even if I am not in love with her—It is my art to be
Kind, as the dogs and horses ride their tracks
And the lips blow out the birthday that is mine.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem