I love to dig out the remains of the past,
even if i get claustrophobic in those graves that are immensely vast.
You should see my collection of artifacts,
stacked in the shacks of my brain cells.
I would take them out sometimes & dust them, when my pain swells.
Each of those polished ends are smooth enough to tear through my finger tips,
so that i could never write about it...
Ever.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem