Like toothache.
Would hear the voices
of dark.
No beginning, no end.
I will not conclude.
Like the setting sun in west
dying beautifully―
without moon.
It is a chilling confession.
No offending. Trying to
understand unmoving lips.
In my suffering
there was no faith healing.
I won't ask your hand.
Every syntax, regenerates
the truth of the dirty mind.
Living amidst the
dangers of orthopedic blunders
you cannot walk straight.
The queen has gone insane.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem