what he did is only to give vent
to the building pressure inside which if
by indolence
if
he stays within the silence of his cell
continually
something in him might burst
and destroy his existence,
like a volcano giving rise
to another lava island
somewhere in Iceland
so tonight that is what he is doing
precisely
and you who is reading this piece
expects
a flesh,
a destination,
an outburst
of autumn
or perhaps the coldness of winter
and the death of some immigrants who still
do not have a home
who has not discovered
the hidden monastery at the back of this
huge mountain
where a living saint
still feeds on
spring
be dismayed
for he is selfish and scheming
a wounded snake who is looking
for nothing
but just a cure
to a sickness
within
stop reading,
this piece has no use
but to be just
an exit
from the imprisonment of a soul
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem