Time is too high, time is too grand like the art
Of our time, we are all time-lords in our machine.
Life is engineered like a medicine of the tongue,
Living is an art of the transparent, death is the result.
Time is too finding, time manages a space too bright,
Too piercing, so far away and altogether lovely.
Of reasoning there is collision and life, rationale begins
On the tip of the tongue, as sudden as the stars at night.
Time penetrates deep, its smoke becomes beautiful,
We see together the wife and husband injure the death.
Fire is at the heart of our weakness, fire is also a light,
So be strongly with children, to decide your innocence.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem