I have wonder in my belly too distant from the head,
The tomorrow is a belly always, a stigma to the beads
That count many, many prayers of unlikely facts.
My love is always teaching the jolly workers of fact,
Possessing the truth of a man who resides in joy.
Of other sights a heart is earning the wholesome food,
Slackening as the time rolls on, worth new heights.
My dying is exact like the trigonometric ratios of orders,
Of numbers and kind logic, so the heart will bleed from
Complication, mixing eternally like the emblem of the soul.
My wonders are northern, southern and wise directions,
Sights of the heart confer the faces existing in unison.
We must be an atlas of brilliance, of prayerful design,
The might of the arrow curves along the wind with heat,
The might of the shot is like a number of heights and gold.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem