My old truths prevail.
I want to confront your denials. You
wil never love universality.
It becomes an inferno.
The necessity of present times. You
can talk, talk your whole life. God sleeps.
My weird images swim. The
beggars wouldn't love occult and mystic
life. Your hands will remain full.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem