I cut my finger by a knife.
It bled and bled;
The blood was dark red.
I couldn’t feel it.
I couldn’t receive the pain—
Couldn’t have it cold or hot,
Or sense it warm or not.
I cried.
I lost some abilities.
I died
That I used to have some facilities.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem