"There is no outlet for words from a freedom that lets ink flow.
The blood of my pen is imprisoned in the cells of insomnia.
And the tears of awareness of perceptions dissolve the concepts.
Knives of greatness slaughter my sensory nerves,
And kill motion in the rhythm of continuity."

"Eyes feed on fragments from the sting of a memory of ecstasy.
The scene of the idea is a link between time and gravity.
And the positioning of the moon suppresses the age of my watery senses.
The places suffocate, they sweat, and the dates burn.
There is no stranglehold on meanings from the slavery that freezes war."

And whenever that barefoot voice was narrowed,
It swallowed gulps of old music,
And cast the shreds of its deformed thoughts into a dump.
And stanched the bleeding of its heart with a knife.
It roamed the emptiness of the hollow city,
The muddy alley of the neighborhood, and drew its lungs as a chimney,
And kept gathering the smell of corpses of its words,
And piled them in a soak.

It is after noon at night and at dawn.
If he obeys and comes, he will soon approach sunset,
And the darkness will extinguish.
But if he refuses, the bleeding of my mind will continue,
And the flowing of words from me prolonged,
And silence will keep striking my hearing and tearing it apart.
Fires will be burned in my soul and ice frozen in my heart.

Then the stone slides into the river of our garden,
Breaking the water, shattering the air,
And trespassing on the laws of physics,
Where butterflies sprout and blossom,
And roses swim in our sky, from butterfly to butterfly.

There we listen to the calm chirping of branches.
On the wings of the birds of repentance,
we watch from beneath the mountain’s summit
The stars of our earth, how they fade while shining,
And the darkness will not extinguish.

In this world of ours, armies practice love instead of war.
They exchange showers of perfume and bullets of kisses.
And when they attack, they dance, and win without fail,
To rejoice in drinking music by night,
And consuming books by morning.