There is nothing to say about the sky,
Hanging there as it always has,
A gaping, omnipotent mouth
Willing to swallow us whole
Into its black sparkling quilt
Stained with red wine galaxies
As infinite and insignificant as our own,
Indifferent to our plight
But always so patient and optimistic for the end
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem