The showers beat on this side of the world,
This blindness is like a corner of the mind.
Anything with leaves and stems is creative,
The beating is on the apples and oranges, the fruit.
A whole sequence of events unfurls slowly,
Inside the house were streams, now there are floods.
The rotten fruit will become heavier,
And the whole world convenes politely.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem