On such a day as this
Cherubs play peacefully
Permeating the air
With heavenly love
Yet their arrows cannot
Mark all joyous targets
For my heart bleeds
Not such a divine gift
But instead the aching ichor
Of regret rushes forth
And the endless beating
Of cherub wings and hearts
Plays softly in my ear
Reminding me, burying me
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem