Go on—
taste it.
Sure, it will prick;
you'll bleed.
Taste your own drop.
What joy will it bring?
Who knows…
The plastic love,
in this plastic age,
an ATM card,
a deluxe version.
Swipe in,
and collect
what you deposited.
Interest benefits—
don't imagine.
Pay the hidden charges.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem