pine sap and nuts,
in unspoken corners.
tongues pierced with emotion,
and pent up clouds.
yesterlonging brushes your neck,
your long hair falling like rain...
or tears without names,
words without sound.
you taste like coffee and cigarettes,
on a dead poet Sunday.
morning falls with aching drench,
pine sap and nuts!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A great poem, like it.