He was blind as a head of triumphs,
The coast capped with headaches
As hems of the sword were sworn in,
Words considerably wept from the blood.
A happy heart concealed the nights of hell,
Foil and butter were cooking their wands,
As the cooks of the heathen men were afoot,
Licking with legs and arms clasped.
He was blind like the wind of sales,
Heaving to the music of homes,
Hitting the jabbed men of bones and ailments
That worshipped the gods of certain hearts.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem