Between psycho and a fakir,
did you say, there was a divine voice.
My green valley is losing the golden moon.
Scrapped, unseen was your life.
Who says death matters. A ghost walks with
me to listen to the immortal suffering.
This was a ritual memory.
orbiting two suns. You were trying
to see through the spiritual eye.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem