There was no final
truth in half-lies. When
you were hunting moon,
I was talking to myself in trance.
You were different,
but obstinate, I survived
your savagery.
Like a castaway after
fighting with my gods, I am
preparing my own tomb.
Holy wars were a great fun.
With changing tribes
and casts, you couldn't spell a mantra.
A lip-lock with death, was
blackening the tongue of sun
you will not stand on beach.
No virtue left in featherless flight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem