Even my own death seems
a poetic lie.
Instead of mourning,
I bring a pot
in which to bury the desperate body.
Its secrets will turn into flower petals.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
If you can imagine it then it may happen but I don't think you want to be concerned with the dying bit if you can imagine rebirth through blossom. In effect you've legislated poetic death out of existence. Brilliant idea...