Answers remain elusive.
Stains were on shirt:
You went on wiping-
away the mirror.
Incarcerated,
biologically, he wanted
to get it changed.
The pecking order.
You were trying to
move away,
from yourself. Death
was the missing link.
Was it indecent
to start the self-inventory?
You start dancing
on the inaudible music.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem