a very sick
soul,
emaciated
transparency
behind
a glass door
it manifests
itself
inside a sore throat
a dry cough
whooping
throughout the
night
depression time
anxiety grows
like five headed
dragons
this is no myth
this is real
you want to
cure the body
feverish and
thirsty
on pale hands
a shrinking
veins
webs of spiders
cover the
eyes
confess upon
yourself
be both
priest and penitent
be silent
sit down
contemplate upon
the goodness of
this universe
let your spirit
flow
and be washed
anew
it is not late
you can still be.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem