Why do we worship? The man who does this
Is a person who believes in belief itself;
A mind races with his hood and wage,
Flowers are mostly strong in their talents
Like the people’s lies and eerie feelings.
We brought kinds of flowers, to worship us
And so we do not worship them;
Their faces turn to their star, in fixed ways,
Living inside the shell of their dreams,
With us and our gardens that are fetched.
Then the sun rages on them, living with us
Is shame and disaster, for we worship
And the flowers wilt and die,
Reminding us of splendour and heaven,
The graves of the flowers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem