My nativity at peril
I wanted to stay away from myself
seeking anonymity in inwardness
Death had drawn a circle
my mode of survival depended on
the hopelessness of life
The ant-hills were growing!
The final assault will take place at night
at spiritual depths.
I will be seething with fake acoustics.
Kissing the blue lips of dawn
night bids adieu.
I will move quietly behind the corpse
A dark tribute to the mother of sorrow.
Flames on river, my body was burning
in blue waves
I was repeating history.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
What bends finds camouflage comfortable. The enormous pipe-organs of cathedrals call out hymns of praise to point out the humble. Worth is measured within the confines of mucous-lined caverns. Sing, especially if you have forgotten the words.