These are not my
words. The knowledge sinks in mind.
What is now the result of meaning?
Everything cracks, counting
the dark lips of undying betrayals.
You walk before the burning moon.
There was no preface. No
End. The middle book was a discovery
of the author called by many names.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nice. Interesting