My quill is a snob fly·
drowning in sour milk of responsibility.
Drinks the purple blood of Sun.
Wanders in chambers,
joining sleepless moments.
Rests eventually on Quasimodo's shoulder.
Passes away from cowardly insecticide of criticism.
Wanted...
(From the poetry collection 'Medical Press of the World'-Bulletproof Publications)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem