When the intellect was
defiling the unwritten book;
half-read, you reach for epiphancy.
Why you had to kill yourself
on the swing, before reaching─
the peak? Searching for escape?
I cannot know you, O flame.
Do not go beyond the sky.
My wings twist like nasturtiums.
Last night a city wept in─
my arms. There were no roses─
left and, no cut glass nudes.
They bleed, when you dig
out the roots. The croci were
planted by me when snow had melted.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
it so much powerful, the love song 'a city wept in my arms' i love that line more strenght