Your hand keeps its silence.
I turn it over:
The palm is old and cracked
Like a face with so many lips.
You say: they murmur their 'might have been', their 'wasn't'.
When evening comes
My 'always' speaks with the voice of the 'never'.
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from www.trilogyofthemirrors.com
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem