each borderline mirror,
broken fragments,
an open eye,
each missed edge,
every cut of missed intent
calls for hands of glass
sharp for loss, for splinters,
broken pictures and edges that
form a skin of red hills
that shapes and bleeds and
cries a trail of doors and loss
and all of this and less
tells a story.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem