I remain a guard of sorrow,
of angels who are thrilling there
and of the water of the fat soil.
Insane guard
of a burning temple
at the time of plague and cholera.
Feast!
Feast of the senses and of the fist
in a velvet glove.
Endless death.
And I become a bell.
Toll!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem