The mess you made, was
apocalyptic.
How the debris streaks
like a fireball.
The blood becomes
a sheer truth.
Moist, sticky on
your hands.
Up in your sleeves
the past hed planted
many wrecks,
You will not be able to retrieve.
The burnt-out roses
emit a beautiful odour.
The phoenix rises again
from the colored ash.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Good things comes even out of the worst. There is always that thing called hope. Enjoyed.