Whispering lights, shelter me, from silence's tangible smoke:
In the hassle of my broken limbs, I have to turn myself into a joke.
The moonlit fog falls while I crack into bits of my own lies;
Liniments don't work here, limpid tears get clouded soon, and nothing flies.
Emollient pain, you have done enough for the mind, now please-
If sleep doesn't get spread, there will be, in its place, a disease.
And every time there's a price upon your life, Dew,
You try to throw it away, as if it never, even for once, belonged to you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem