Sand
woudnt stop, not free
cloth over the faces. Tears they roll down
to red in there eyes, to a pleasure
they love, eyes it wants
so small, how can this be
shot here, now there
captive
2 thousand and 50
through your hands.
metal, not this time
no
Change this somehow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem