Those that follow your kisses, in the castle of leaves
that I raised from dust, the few times you were asleep in your bed, and I wasn't,
the castle that resembles the form of your heart, and shadows even god's might;
And those that fear your kisses, and hide behind a friendship;
Those that chain themselves to your ankles, with prayers
because in their eyes your shape, your image, is white, as god's feathered creatures;
Those that made themselves a god from you,
so they wouldn't have to pray to a dead one;
Those that spill gold on your skin, the kings
searching for another nude tropy, to put in their beds;
Those that spil their heart on paper, and push it under your door at night;
Those that still fear to call you,
though they have undressed you of clothes, when all eyes were closed;
Those little men, those fools
they have no idea that they're all parts of me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem