I sink my fangs
Into the soft throat
Of a poem
There's no blood
Only ink
I have no mercy
For my own works
I always try to pass them off
Already dead
Frozen on the run
Toward infinity
Al dente
Not too clever
But not trite either
Just right
In taste
As well as in serving
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem