Rains prattle unceasingly
I speak, listen
to sounds, words, silences.
Spaces are infinte
so are wounds, these
rains are wounded
splendid drops
of blood...
Just read this poem of yours. More often than not, rain is compared with tears. Here, you have seen them as 'wounded splendid drops of blood... '. May be, the imagination of a wounded heart?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
fourth line word infinte should read infinite.