Airplanes fly low enough to hurt,
If I had a soul:
They trough right through the dirt,
They caracole the bitter fruits of
Childhood stains-
Wherever I am going I have you on the
Brain,
And not enough dirt to bury you,
Or to extol myself for the wounds I
Always seem to bring upon my soul,
If I had a soul
And not just empty handed pain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Perfect in every way - not a word out of place. Beautiful work.