What once was the trunk
of a wise weeping willow
is now a withered page of paper
stained with the blood of an illiterate poet.
Too wet to write on
and too red to read from
the page lay slain, a victim of life.
Frail and frivolous. Used and useless.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Woah, this is a beautiful poem, very meaningful 10/10