Sing to me your tormentful sorrows, bleed out thy wispful plight— A bloodless heart due cold, thine own self to bare, waste not the nectar of death, want not the bloodied arrow of plight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A superb expression of the actualism and lonely individualism of life's resulting implement. Well done, I hope to be seeing more of this.