the background
is a garden of roses
fresh red roses
with lots of thorns
and then the white lady
with falling hair comes
with a pair of scissors
and the roses fear no more
for their daily deaths
their executioner is here
this art, this lady with
a commitment to cut
the finer and more beautiful ones
as offering
for her long dead husband
crushed by a war
of suppression and depression
face derided
face off, slashed wrist and
compulsory writs
she picks one for me
and i write one crazy poem for her
just being fair
to madness and art and
compulsion
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem