A pen should vomit a handful secrets
Its ink is not a color to cross out regrets
A mouth is not a special gift to be exalted
But the letters as the pantomime of the head
The genre of every word doesn't matter
The bridge of the tongues does matter
The rhyme is not the rhythm of the song
But what it gives to the unknown
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem