A shape moved quicker than the quicker spring,
Rotten shapes appeared from before with fright
Whistling in the night, when fortune told the score
Forcibly, as the force was strong and mighty, like
Food thatched on the roof.
A circle investigated by some was moving in wands
Little by little, forcing the dance erratically,
Fighting swung into factories of light,
Without the shapes in geometry
And without the simple trigonometry,
Over something like rocks and timber,
Onto the race and into the ocean of oats.
Food had shapes in the held hands,
Grotesquely and largely with fierce light.
Let the shapes of a day be food and light,
Letting this be a sign for the highness of the sight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem