The screaming of a guitar,
the agony of a young prostitute,
the soul of a dead child
in the dance of a mute curse.
The steps of silence,
in the ages of shame,
voices in the dark:
“Anyone else bound for Hell? ”
The executioner, the executioner,
Death’s twin brother.
Fire is staining the ashes
and sickening the loom.
I am left alone,
a pain in life,
just another murder
under Jupiter’s light.
I look in the mirror
but the night is still falling.
Soul made of silk,
when are you going to fly?
To cry?
To kiss the mouth of Isis?
But not yet.
Her body, her body,
so bright.
But the sun’s morning,
so far away…
I want to be born…
in my dreams…
again…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem