To return to him, you must learn with the seeing,
Pretty pieces of the pathway appear to us when sown.
Cool and stopped, a freedom of the house is propped,
Returning us yet again to oblivion and soul's rest.
Hiding, creating and fulfilling is a fierce wind of might,
Turning the present to the past or the future.
Time is still a system of the painted paint, a pant of sayings,
The rigour of righteous reality, the space of a region.
Towards the cheek is the calling, alien to my neck,
Feel the chess of my life, the phones of my calling.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem