The healing of the hundred men so great,
The hearing of a thousand months and nights;
The seeing of the bleeding beasts so bright,
Those who accused the witless devils and demons.
It is a picture of your camera in the dusts and deserts,
The beauty of the dunes excels a minority.
My scenic tragedy is a dreadful landscape of sorrow.
The healing comes in many forms and ideals,
Beauty is at bay, beasts are beaming like light
On savage servants of the night and greatness.
This night, the old spectacles break and shutter,
Those nights bespoke, these nights blaze like fire.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem