that which is true
hurts like a knife
but only for a while
come to think of it
the hurt
has wings
pain has white
feathers
and red plumes
those wings fly
swiftly to set you free
makes you warm
comforts you
to a wool of warmth
on the onset of
a very cold night
when you find yourself
mulling again
on your empty arms.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem