Sometimes the morning comes without warning,
and sometimes you have to wait.
Possessed of a ray of breathing blackness;
a quake of awakening rage.
That's what I never tried to tell you:
I can't stop the path of such sun.
And that was the way that I loved you,
with one tender hand, and one;
Which loathed you like a treasure,
but a fingerprint away.
With a fondness which dawn can't measure,
and a hate that gets up before day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem