Your letter is unkind to me.
You hurry to the end, afraid
I might do things to harm you,
that I would press my fingers
on your words and weigh you down.
I am no more than a cripple.
I have no arms to harm you
to touch you. I have only
my tongue and my lips.
I borrow arms and legs
from others to write you
and send you my regrets.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem