And if you shout past my eyes,
The sound would wane,
And bellow along with the ones muted
In the shadows, unwanted.
If you reek, and the scent you wreak
Would be perceived by my nostrils,
As bleak as the winter chill
Then I am forever blighted.
My words aren’t recognized by tongues,
But descried by dismembered mannequins
And eyes that line up like sequins
Never make any sense to me now
Does my hoarse and guttural cry,
Scare you in the middle of your sleep?
Or does it instigate your intricacy,
And plummet in too deep?
If trust is a sword,
It would be then rusting,
Sleeping in the scabbard,
Like a child resting asylum in thorny arms
And if love is a word,
It would be swarmed with Hemiptera
With a head of a hedonist
And teeth as sharp as scimitar
If anything is as empty,
As my stale and faint eyes,
Then it would be clear to myself
That I, among the vessels, am empty.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem