with too many roses
growing in a small planet
a rose becomes too familiar
and too much familiarity breeds
enough contempt to take all petals
for granted no matter how unique
a red can be, no matter how rosy
can life be, because there is so much
the numbness comes, and here you are
spoiled milk, sour, spilled,
irrelevant, useless, wasted,
and white is like red, ...nothing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem