my first hug
was not from my father.
it was from that man
with a hanging tongue.
it was dirty.
he had no heart
but a knife.
since then i shy away from hugs.
youth cannot forget.
what it buries, rises from the grave.
i face it with hatred.
i am a grown up man now.
there are no more hugs
since then.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem