A book full of pictures
my hands grows cold touching faces
of dead kings and queens
a black raincoat
in the upstairs bedroom
Swaying from the ceiling
mother's long needles
make quick crosses
they were black
the pages I turn sound like wings
the soul is a bird
in my book full of pictures
a battle rages: lances and swords
a wintry forest with my heart
spiked and bleeding in its branches
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem