WHEN the flies hang their
hats, this love is dead.
WHEN a stitch is torned
out, this love is dead.
WHEN we blind fold our
words, this love is dead.
WHEN you become a stranger,
this love is dead.
Dear David, I marvel at this type of poem.Full effect! Pulls you in. Excellent! ......Where can we go now!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
'Blindfold our words': powerful and fresh.