it etched a chasm.
deep it was
enough for all of hell
to fit.
a mortal wounding
to the soul
is heaven's own
prerequisite
to streams of mercy
pouring through,
enough to fill
the ocean's broad.
precise to sorrow
bliss is weighed
upon the balance
of the gods.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Another lovely poem from Moon, exquisite---Melvina