You hurt me more with words than with acts of thoughtless force
But you hurt me more with your silence now and, of course,
If I could but tell you what I, in muted grief, did willingly bear
You would, perhaps, rise to comfort me instead of just lying there
But heaven forbid, I should sit here harboring my selfish thoughts
When, in truth, I must allow the soothing salve that blots
All traces of unpleasantness to ease and bind this numbing pain
And freely flow from my Alabaster jar, albeit, mingled with pure disdain
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem