Poised between writing and reading,
You are hurting and flirting, crowding.
The people are jesters of the silk,
Rich are their socks, richer are the chests.
My balls of beauty are rolling downhill,
Does the ballroom feel sweat and ruin?
To floors we see the rotten meat of death?
A man has besieged, a man talks too late.
We are deadly, they are deadly, but later
The death has ruined nobody but life.
The reading is perfect, the sweat is twitching,
My angers are of otherworldly acts,
People are crowding, with sore feet and hands.
Like a dropped ball, it carries on forever,
Until a result is occurring too late.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem