In prickly bramble
of berries' roses
in dove's nest
of pitch and straws
with thorns like knives
cutting their way not painfully but gracefully.
I bleed.
My grief flows
through the soil deep
like a wound that heals
stretching my roots underground
flawed adapting,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
stretching my roots underground. good one.