Something was not polite in signs.
The smell of incarcerated bed of gods
was floating down.
A subdued shadow of black moon
was climbing on the window. And each
house had offered a son, to rage
a war of retribution. Malice towards
one and everybody, they were ready to cut the
hands who were holding the book.
Out of the ore comes out the gold, when
you use mercury. Vacant eyes have the
veils of tears. Dampness was melting the bones.
The mud on the face, a gift of birthday.
war of retribution. Malice towards one and everybody, they were ready to cut the hands who were holding the book. nice message
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
stunning poem in a thought provoking craft...well written in a very nice poetic language and imagery, meaningful............10