it has always been a struggle.
time is a thread
connecting two strange bridges
one walks
and balances in order not to fall
to the abyss
of failure
it is always a question of
how i touch love with love
i carry love and the one i touch
does not recognize the warmth of my
hands
it looks at me as though i am a stranger from a very far land
i am always broken and sometimes i wish to have the hands of Midas
not the kind that makes everything gold
i want to have the snake hairs and the gaze that can make those who do not see love in me
turn into stones.
it has always been a struggle and when the shadow of death comes with his sickle
i will speak no word at all
and gladly shall i go with it
it is my wish for now.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem