The poetry of life begins with war and peace,
Once the realisation has clicked, and burned
The pages of this number and phrase.
The poems of later ages shall resound in the head,
They provoke the partnerships and fellowships,
After the clock burdens the majority of workers.
Our words are of the lost remark, the losing is grand
From the heavenly rainbow, burning in illness.
My book is my duty, it is my praise and burden,
Like the clock of the eternal concoctions.
It is in this posture that beginnings of murmurs take
Place, like the liars of the hellish compounds.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem