The thought of you connects to other thoughts,
Escaping you brings misery, and so much avenue.
Letting seasons pass enjoys itself, for we breed
In the hours of the year, and fix the knives of life.
Here the burden is taken to end with matters,
For life is now a ceiling and a beginning for ever.
Heaven’s player is called the angel of angels
And he listens to underground inhabitants too late.
Lost in triumph, we accuse nobody of the crime
As it ripened by itself affording one too many of them.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem