Three heads
are born.
They grow
with
each death.
Staring,
fixed eyeballs
on the
world.
Two
of them speak
now and then,
Sunflowers on a sword.
They always
break off, leaving
me
bare.
I am real,
normal again,
Whatever
that means.
I am
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem