Why did is there a posibility of drowning in the fountain, why did the extacy of love crown me and made me phsyche,
what bird from heaven heard my call
and ansuwered sweetly
i was as a fooll in front of beauty
I nnkelt before her and i said i find you bitter, and i swore at her
and today beauty is here in my pocket, of jewells
The memory of something pathetic
fields of wheat filds of orange groves
my garden with huricanes in the middle
calm in one of dantes circles
ever consuming and feeding the lamp of the wind
his holy comandment must come to be
to be or not tobe
to feel or not to feel the orange on the tree, threatened in the garden.
the circles denounce mirrages of her lips
endlessly coral red
the thorns on the rose bush clawed my phisical harnes o
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem