in that short show
you stab me and i stab you
too and the audience
keep on laughing not having
understood the real
meaning of all these
french fencing....
they all believe we provided
the entertainment but deep within
us when we arrive home from that
long trip
the writing begins and the pen
keeps on shooting still the bullets
anywhere, ricocheting, rebounding,
hitting the floor and the ceiling
not hurting anyone this time.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem