The only thing I love
is to meditate on death
What is death I know not
But I am sure that it is not as boring
as shopping malls
where poetry is bought and sold
A poet wants to get rid of poetry
and it is possible only when one dies
A world without breath
a landscape without poetry and death
is at hand when you are dying
Oh Death I can see your earlobes
They are as big as footballs
Oh handcome Death your moustache
is bushy and melancholy
Oh death sustainable sadness do I seek
in your yellow arms
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem