You have loosed a scented kerchief
that casually drifts behind,
away I stole it like a thief
to cherish for all time.
Dear lady,
loquacious in your speech,
may I take this linen cloth
and dab my blood specks
from your cheek.
Your words I need to give me life
but your voice will never rise
the levels of the graveyard's pit
where the death of love reclines.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Such sadness in spite of badness!