Blood on the floor
Hearts last beatings
And yet still it aches
For a life I cannot know
Blood on your hands
Eyes last seeing
And yet still i see you
With her who has given nothing
Blood on the door
Hands last feeling
Yet I still feel for you
And gave you all I shared with no one before
Blood on your lips
Lips that lied straight to me
And yet I still told my love to you
Love apparently not enough
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I remember the first time I read Shelley's ODE TO THE WEST WIND as an adolescent rejecting the lines I FALL UPON THE THORNS OF LIFE! I BLEED! In an otherwise measured poem that image was too self dramatizing. I have a queasy feeling whenever a poet uses blood as a metaphor. That's my problem; it's not the fault of your poem or you. I read it again and then again and saw how you built the imagery of blood in 4 CUMULATIVE PICTURES. So you are in control of your material in a way I don't see in Shelley. Some poems I have tocome back to to appreciate.