a music of my pain,
threshold of birthing gain's,
i sing with my dying flute,
like the stair of a surprise,
with the longing i rise.
El wayiyo,
what a nice place,
at the sunset of pleasure,
i create the atmosphere of pressure,
though all still of pinging melt.
But el-wayiyo,
a nice place again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem