The messenger knocks
on the door, in control of the message.
''Are you ready for self-questioning? ''
Digression begins. The
red rains start, with noises. Any hand
of god touches the shoulder of the betrayal.
My last toast spills. I
wait for the waning sun to
enshrine my tabled memories.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem