the gut is full of
shattered pieces
those that make you
remember nails
the feel of thorns
and porcupines
time has a way of
numbing guts
and then pain is nothing
but recurrences
you have no name for it
but survival
you go on talking the paths
with nothing but
the moon above you
and the silence of the earth
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem