A stream is not a seashore,
The summer negates the throat
As far as the horizon.
Towns are jumping on us from then on,
Still then in this city yearns a pride.
Thrones over yards and slums
Preside as prizes, and trails whirl
Towards wishes and winces.
The stage of the years is growing
Like the turkey of our doors
And the chicken of tomorrow.
Brushing me aside, the thrill
Of a day is upon us.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem