It's December, no crying
since a year will soon be buried
but reality says this is not true -
because all your years or angles
remain with you
and so all your archetypes
sit at the dinner table with you,
lie down with you all your notions
of pleasure.
It is December, it will be until the 31st.
Elementary.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem