I
Where the poems are born from?
From the Orchid they are
Discharged by the Anguish asleep
That burns deeply the armour
Up to the bones naked seen
And the hand of the Loneliness
Feeds the shadows
Whose petals are sick
And too carmine
Shall the Orchid too sleep?
II
Tender roots of the Orchid
That is scarlet as blood
Shape the sculpture
Of rare reflection
From the transcendent seconds
That pass
Just enough
Just to glance
At the sunset departing
Followed by the shadows
Whose nature is lilac?
Cast upon snowy winter
That longs for the Sun
Inside black fiery lashes
Of the frozen tomorrow
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem