There is something disperate in the air.
Insects are smashed against the wall,
leaving mired mocha currents.
This whole game is just for kicks.
I don't mind telling you something is up
but what it is, I don't know. Some gravelly
substance with a decent crunch.
We rattle. We crackle.
We were searching for the right words,
left only with our adapted memories
of things intended to you,
in order to remember me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem