Nowhere was a dot of blood; nowhere
neither in the hands of the assassin,
nor on the nail, nor even on her cloth.
There was no spot on the tip of the knife;
nor on the ground nor even
around my footsteps along the path I took;
there was no trace of blood.
How professional was the assassin
seeing her usual work and the smiling face
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem