I stepped out into the garden
to pluck a flower for you -
it shook its leaves in my face,
fought me stubbornly,
raked me with its thorns.
Now I wait for you
at the corner of the house,
I stand there
and feel
the rose trembling
in my hand,
its hot, black blood
leaking out
into the dark.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem