I opened my grandmother.
The Universal is independent.
To the vast expanse of this great world
I opened her way. Still, the stories that
I am telling you She is more likely to hear.
I am late She would have been full of trouble.
Cutting the grains of mango, worshiping the mule's ****,
Looking closely at the sunset
She would have been silently painting for a long time.
The birds that had come near to to see,
The sono-rama was very shocking to me.
In the nights of the rainy season, rain and dew on our skin
When the sound is singing one and the same
She was shaky.    but              She liked poetry; My poems,
so I left them for her;             my  grandmother.
She grew her cooch's hair as if it was grandfather's beard.
Now her spread wings seek the eternity of the beginning
and I fly into her. Her dreams will be the grass beneath the rain.
In the waving wheat's hum; where Ants walk.
In the wrinkled cage that is open,
there was a rain of the deceased
only a feather is wet.
A gift for a bequest. Remember it !! Take it!
I opened up my paternal grandmother.
Despite knowing she may not be breathing,
She will not come.