Night revolves above us
and you
have nothing else to say
and I
have nothing else to write,
nothing real at least,
and
It's your fault that
I haven't
managed to keep my promises.
My poems
like my lips
are not on your taste anymore.
Elusive and cruel,
worthless,
you're becoming to resemble
too much
with your god.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem