The ocean
of many forgotten resemblances
waxes the eyebrows
of her (or his)
stingray that guards
the chalice of fortitude
beyond the straightforwardness
of the progressive
octopus who sits
and waits
millenniums for
a nuptial
disagreement
in the waking sleep
of arms before
the beginning of time
stretches its legs
and says
are we done yet.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem