I don’t fake the pain
pain was me.
A grafted rose opens up along the road rage.
This was the city of my birth
my oblivion, my reincarnation
ejaculated from the dark.
Here I found the golden dust
nuggets of truth
and the nostalgia of a broken moon.
The marble white love
and green bowl of arms
a happy valley of stings.
The sun backtracks on hills
when I walk on sands
leaving the deep scars.
A small horizon was my window
hunger of nightingales on branches.
The tree was walking in, my house.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The view from childhood is a shuttered affair. Storm shutters protect but they also delimit. And youth, so I've told by old men wtih stooped backs leaning on wooden canes polished from long use, is limitless.