I will die with dignity.
Beauty, you cut me crisply. I
stand on the bank. Shiner swims.
Pinned to flowers like
butterflies for colorful unearthing, when
you are never too old to kill.
I was hit in the garden.
My roses bleed. The moon, my
lover, hesitates to open wounds.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem