He strove through the garden of love,
Without limit the light glistened and moistened;
His veins swore to tell joy as their relaxation
Was becoming itself in the foolishness of light.
His deeds came to the roundabout of foil,
The aluminium, the metal of a day that swore.
His deeds stumbled like a friend or fiend,
But which of those are there these?
He strove a guilty master who stormed the sword,
His walking was swifter than the phoenix.
My garden had been his backpack,
The green part of love was a playable option,
Must we stare with full eyes and ears?
Ears touch the light, searching for love as right,
Loving is caressing, cherishing, dressing.
My garden is bright, brilliant red of roses, prime
Noise of a nose that was lavender, turtles bloated.
Green was the love endangering me when I stood
On the bridge that swords must play.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem