Now I am gouged out.
Silt slopped to the side
A ruin, safe only for owls.
Saplings reaching out from the harsh cracks
wreaked in my side.
The nightingale presses its chest against the
thorn until it splits and falls useless;
a feast for ants, for secret larvae.
As the rotten fruit falls to the ground
the seed is safe within.
An orchard of potential
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem