I am fearful of you, as a pen writes for me,
Inside you caresses speak, with loud lamentations.
You dearly write of the weeks ahead,
Causing months to speak and mutter
The praises so sudden, as praises shake me,
And blood is spilled for my sake.
The veins and arteries fear you and all of me,
When love’s shadow is real.
When is love real? When do you love?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem