Some swallow spikes in her new injury
includes the one who dug they're knuckle in my sleep
Dampen rarest heavens, trickled pumpkin
but who saws the marrow towards speech?
Tore before the swollen pond
set off the muse in flinching
palace of the drowning cactus
crashed the looming hooves of mincemeat.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem