It was not the worth
of a cloud,
your garden, sitting
on the lake.
Refresh drops, in the
dry eyes of the rope, which was
wounding around your neck
like a snake.
You want to become
a blue god now, on
opioids. A living ruin, attracting
the tourists.
The terrible change,
we are dragging our dead body
under the shadow of
the toes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem