To see the wildness in a man is sacred,
Offering him news confounds the truth,
But an anatomical picture of a destiny is unique
So that we are physicians of our destinies.
To see and watch the skies of eternity creates
My picture and scene that forsakes the music.
One has apples growing on the treeless land
By the skies of showering fruit,
You wish for better yet you deny a sacred man
His pleasure if the rocks and stones
Disintegrate, fully imagining a sword
That tears at the flesh, offering the words towards me.
I am disinterested in eyes that wish a sigh,
Oafs have reason now that the eyes are in dire
Partnership, fully immersed in the sights.
My apples that descend to the grounds
Are amounting to flowers of the poetry,
Poets swallow their ripened fruit endlessly.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem