Translation of Tatiana Lipkes
The heavens are the grounds of this myopic eyes are the servants of perception. Surely this is a poem, that model question. From death to life way. Was Lucretius so elitist? In the kitchen on the white board and wrote reminders were leaving messages, telling me that mayonnaise was over and the blue cheese was disgusting: hanged, p, o, c. I laugh as if my pots were clean. If reality is trying to put into words is certainly taking the long way. The inevitable feeling is preliminary, and much of what I see I do. Since when a sentence is a metaphor? I continually see before me, impatiently asks about my work.