in a place where little is left
where the sandy mind
does not allow anything to grow
where non-life rages like
the weather in a hostile planet
I place a vase
of flowers, white and clear
pure and simple
in a place where all the elements
conspire to kill
perhaps beauty might heal;
or perhaps if it is death,
it comes better
with one's aesthetics as witness
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem