Flakes in palm
Sculpture; I became again
stood still; flesh but metal, rock
as I did years ago in prison, Palace.
Then and now
my eyes to the sky
devoted to falling flakes
on my eyebrows, face
and moustache; in eyes.
Pleasant is the melting
of flakes on skin
as was in Moscow
on my chest.
"What a hot man! "
Said the Russian woman.
I could never make love with
the flakes in my palm.
Sadly…
they melt before I kiss them…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem