The sun is always in such same suite of clouds, 
Fire, melting stone or burning air is grasping mind, 
To be here, to hear a drip of chanting ashes, 
I am in doubt, 
Curiosity about your existence, 
Might be fatal, 
Sincerity is spreading, 
Upon my heart it was a poison, 
Deadly blood within a lash of the blackest bucket is real.                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem