A poem dies in me.
I search for you again
deep in my breast.
The initial spurt of
the raging thought―
sleeps on the rags.
With scrawny fingers―
you write a verse of―
moon in night.
The half-moons rise
in the vacant looks
like venus flytrap.
Do not pluck the―
blood roses. My fingers
were still bleeding.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem