The stars are giving birth to beauties,
The moons travel with friendship,
And the planets drive our mathematics.
One star is enough to starve a planet,
It sweetens the hearers and serves
The oppressed who ring the earth.
One safer mysterious joy is apt to decide,
The decisions are final in the spaces
That override and you must be in joy.
The stars of the heavenly sky shall
Recognise when the death of stars befalls
A fit crew of corridors and states too fine.
The stars can be ripe as tomatoes of
White lustre, plucked from the orchard
Called the sky, a fit heaven, a fit tie.
May the moons break the finding of late,
The beauty of the state, and the hate
Has run dry of a satanic mind always.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem