The sun beats down
With a tribal sound
Onto Love's bloody battlefield,
The Knight of Chivalry,
Swings his sword at will,
But he's dropped his battleshield.
There was once a beautiful garden..
All wounds aren't clocks,
Time can't repair all,
Their hands don't heal.
My veins grind,
Like a million snakes fighting
For their last meal.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem