The fumbling picks up.
The sixth sense
was failing.
A mother weeps
for the unborn child.
You were still ogling the peaks.
Were you true to yourself
in the dark, when the
moon was away?
I had lost the burning
coals, after the
rains came.
The dark mine, where
they were shot, for
picking up the lightning.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem