You started to hate
even the fact that I still breath, too.
Even my little madness of evening
such harmless in this wilderness of country.
What an unconsciousness, I tell to myself,
to want to kill hour by hour
something that not you raised it,
not you looked after the sweet-bitter pneumonia
what a courage to believe
that you can destroy something more
from a lost animal
among even more desolate verbs
but with spiny fur on wound
or from a refuse-collector dream
let testament
to the former anarchists…
A nice poetic imagination, Lucia. You may like to read my poem, Love and Lust. Thanks
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A nice poetic imagination, Lucia. You may like to read my poem, Love and Lust. Thanks.