He is merely unsuitable,
For the task terrific,
Mighty flesh has connected
To the lusts of the future.
My needle flashes in the light,
Interiors are fed with slices
Of real life, and the real life
Is a real life, of those who let angers
Be their heavenly frame of mind.
The tasks of aliens describes ships
From the stars that dazzle their load.
My future is written on the hands,
Also the hands of a clock,
That flips the ladders of hope,
And she and you climb it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem