Plugged into the incandescent socket of remorseful thinking,
not seeing any way out into the open.
Trailing sideways, peeking over edges as it is carried towards
a burning pile of blame.
Touched by the flames, piping hot, fanning the possibility of
Lengthening gray shadows come out of hiding and flaunt their
frivolous purposes in the wake of daily saddened onslaught.
Figuratively flirting with envious positions of ancient rituals,
deciding on which plot will close the essence of life as it is
Placed on the back porch, hidden from view, messages are sent
of shame and guilt.
Boxed between rags of old, tattered completely, closing the
circle of impending death.
Wary of the innocent replies of other people, never really
focusing on the aspect of reality, turning spits of brutality
and hating it.
Sliced by the cutter's blade, falling off the table, lying
in a grave made especially for a little body, wrapped whitely
in linens, spotted by the blood of innocence.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem