To be furnished with provisions,
Avert theft so as to be certain and measuring,
I clasp you by the hand and deny
The apparatus of your legend.
To think is to sow the seeds of water
And earth, like the enemy without you.
I carry a slave loading your luxury,
Feeling some sort of anxiety about work.
He is not a thief of the stars, nor one
Of the hundreds who remark on talents.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem