Like a butterfly pinned
in a collage, fluttering.
Death makes a deal.
I was appalled
standing on the edge
watching the withering body.
The lake drowns me.
Seagulls were waiting
for a renaissance.
It is not even midsummer.
The planting of the kiss
remains incomplete.
No sex was involved
in baring midriff.
Moon ignites the legs.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem