i am tired.
you think that i do not know
how to draw your face
from only a few pieces
of evidence: an eyelash,
lips, a few locks of your
hair,
and a bowl of
water.
that is what you
do,
blackmail.
a shadow waits,
and it will stab you
too.
it is yours.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem