Privileged of remaining
grey in the hands of enemy,
I say to myself―
why not turn dark.
You will erase the ancient bliss.
It had made you a goliath beetle.
The weapons become the
shining medals. I would fill the―
gap of gender space.
But, when the doors become
shut, light tends to cling
the floaters― moving in straight line.
You reach for the falling
crumbs of age. The pain opens
the sky of withering vision.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Tress die that you may rise in the radiation that rains down like half-cooked food. Prepare the page with bleach. Squeeze the juice from fruits, wash the seeds. The foundation settles with time, making small talk, before the final revelation.