I'm wandering with these bloody
red stained hands
wondering
wondering what I did
What did I do
this cleaver in my hand
and this red mark
that runs across my chest
This sharp pain
Shards of wood
splinters maybe
break the skin
Nothing comes to mind
shooting a blank
I can't recall an instant
as if it never happened
The dark night before
I was lost
too lost in my own deeds
enough to kill to get my way
I hunted him down
I brought him to court
I hung him
I pounded the nail
The nail that
that held him there
his head hangs
hangs in love and compassion
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem