The end of civilization is to seek out and learn,
Never and never does the snow hiss or walk
Like us, for we crawl and hurl from it.
It is the cloud that is the spiritual center,
The importance of flesh has disappeared,
Foolish breath has eventually worked.
Cold and deep was the shop called blood,
My only sound ran away,
The following day he claimed a joy.
Shop for the sudden belonging,
Far-off the windows are shut and open,
Touching is too much beginning.
My young man matters to the born,
And he parked along the black roads,
Melted by the snow you certainly watch.
My claim he cast aside,
Now that the birth of brown beards
Arose from the jungles and forests.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem