A sanguine death.
That’s what I feel.
Yes, the intoxication
Of any promise of
Life is gratifying
But you see,
Young, agile reader.
What I love the most
Is not a woman,
Not a god
Nor a thing -
It is the slow
Trembling of
Happiness meshed with
Angst
Whenever I sit
In front of a typewriter
And enter
A mad surge of
Words that could
Burn for an eternity.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem