a subtle fragrance - woe and mead
a gregarious inheritance - wishful indeed.
A solitary buckle wraps around me with aromas of pity
for whatever's in need.
Tell the list makers, the elegant crew,
That birth is more cups than truths...
The chink of poison switched
in the candle's light
So that death is swift
But not altogether right.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem