you
are not the scars that
define your chiseled features,
nor
are you words on a
page that leave me wanting.
you
are my starwish realized,
my undeserved holy reward.
we
are made of the stuff
of magic and mayhem..
we
are the tortured, the
blessed, still wounded,
old willie's
'star-crossed lovers.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem