My bleeding heart
makes scarlet snow in winter
and crimson mud in spring.
My bleeding heart
streams sanguine from its center
and neither beats nor sings.
My bleeding heart
remembers all last summer
and every dropp of fall.
My bleeding heart
aches for rest and slumber
and needs familiar walls.
My bleeding heart
weeps in silence while it grows
and wasn't meant to roam.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem