A lake walk,
in the forest of limbs.
Like the blind man said,
I can hear the truth.
It was more of a ritual
to sit in intense moonlight
when seagulls were stealing the sky…
And you will belong―
to the darkness, of unknowing―
self.
Knowing the inevitable end,
that will come, uninvited.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem