It's a slow and ponderous process,
The breaking of the human heart.
It doesn't happen in a matter of moments;
No clear division of one into two.
Part by part and bit by tiny bit,
A chunk is carved,
A piece bitten into,
A raw emotion filled nugget is relished.
As each beautiful emotion begins to wilt,
As cherished love and tender joy are butchered,
We Die.
In the end what remains is:
A futile pumping of cold blood into harsh veins.
Nothing is of purpose and,
There is no meaning in this mundane act.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Anam, a great idea for a poem, and well written. Ian