What am I doing here.
She and the others just fall.
Into the line of bullets.
Some of the others
they seem to hide
in front of the barrel.
In a platoon full of woman.
But I'm not.
Through the slats I look up.
Where most,
are uniform in size.
The rest of the pie is hot.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem