Heavy is this shroud of guilt...
Worn all my life.
Fringed in promise unfulfilled,
Of patchwork knit contrite...
From whence it came I know not,
Though doubtless from my youth.
Imbued by those cut of the cloth,
Whose fearsome God is myth.
Endless, twisting strand of shame,
You gather this motif.
T'is the thread which binds the seam,
This woven quilt of grief.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem