Skinned alive, as
an aftermath of speaking
against the unhinged
blue gods.
Like cacti: growing
straight towards the sky
exploring the questions,
you open a can of paint.
The secret spills. In
happenings, you will find
some poems, written
for tribes of flowers.
The colors sings at the
feast of tearfalls.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem