You stole my shade
to bare it all, culling the lethal
truth, when someone goes blank.
I was not bonecipher.
My blood flows in your veins.Yesterday
I killed myself on paper. Ink is still screaming.
It hurts to collect the dead.
The grief becomes obsolete. Life gets
naught in the crowd of angels.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem