Blunt and bold were
the wet spots.
You bleed like me.
The seizure takes hold
of millions thoughts.
My sins are walking with me.
No annihilation of
the flesh. I was meeting
the spirits.
The face becomes pure
gold, when you
start burning the issues.
The years had survived
in slumber.
Death will not come to the hanged man.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem