Blood so pure
No disease without cure
Of flesh and molecules
A cancers great end
Except the disease of
A heart you bend
The very face of
Veins and ventricles alike
But heaveir and harder
It'll rest easy that night
The four chambered spirit
Of dancing doves and floating flirts
Had yet to find safety
Buried beneath the eight pronged shirt
this daggers' disease goes
beyond colors and spices
It clogs up your arteries
With multi-emotional crisis
It'll rip
And I'll laugh
Without future
But with grass
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem