Around the wailing banks
of the river black
life marched silently
like the hushed up child
bare feet
longing for the bread-crescent.
A cloud hanged down
like the noose of devil
to clench the ripples live
from the dead sea of age.
Wanton fingers
pulsate
over the mackrel eyes
and the wounds become alive
before the another dream is hacked.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem