what we know is
you have loved that rose
for so long so that
even if it had already
wilted with all
the memories of roses
fallen under
the feet of dead trees
what disgust is there
for us who care for the sun
in your eyes
and the moon in your hair
when you still keep that
thorn stuck in your
skin like a nail to the
wall of an old house long
abandoned by the rivers
of the winds.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem