I see the ground open without shutting down,
Houses of spectacular hope have been absorbed,
And their graves unite to gather a reward,
Like the offenders of the whole of thought.
I see a man speak and release his anger
On the blind beggar of the century,
Who whines with the windy sigh.
I see his mouth open like a shadow in the night,
Following the tragedies of the very season,
The lifting of the pen is in sin, the lift is consistency
And if a woman has endeavoured to speak a sin,
Pinching is the action of a decimated day.
I witness an abjection in the mild time of this swinging
Day and night, lifting the pen with sides of the square,
Forcing a border to let a given tremor.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem