Go, I told them. I told them go, I don’t know why.
Stay.
Pallid are our faces; cotton swabs and sheets of paper with not a single word,
Through the shredder. Through his lips; dry as sand; as scorching feet.
Together, we form a precipitate; encrusted with wrangling thoughts;
We dare not speak. Not now, not ever;
My head holds too much.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem