Cold sweat
pricks at
my begging nape.
The beauty in your soul
can’t be erased
by elegiac winters.
I find heaven
in your wounds
and evident scars.
Show me
what this really is,
what I’m meant for.
Through chapped lips
here my whispers
as I remove this mask.
Visible suspension
of better tomorrows;
I think I’m here.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem