They embraced, in forgiveness,
after years of civil war,
and putrid history,
as death drew near and injuries,
relevant no longer, stifled
the freedom of hope and greatness.
Regret became the toxic fume,
fumer, pere fume.
But still, a side carriage to the hate
forgiven?
Our ambivalence to freedom,
ties us against Resurrection,
Letting go the petit morte,
an advent to an
Epiphanos.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem