Mother's crimson leather bags
Crammed with saint cards
And tiny glass bottles of liquor.
The bright stitch
Of God's final coming.
Dirt and dregs, silt and stars.
The sweet song
Of poverty
Rinsing through me
Like the memory
Of a dream.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A short, sweet, nostalgic poem