the absurd lies on the surface of our skins
like a rose tattoo that shirks and shrinks with time
crumpled lines and fading dyes and a story that refuses to die
you ask me if somehow i have obtained some meaning to my life
something that i cannot say i soon tell you
it is more of a growing thing that does not really show itself
unless you wait till the right season comes
the wind gives it a light feeling and the sun warms it a bit
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem