After the rains,
it was a full moon
in summer night.
Fleeing from a subculture-
of violence, she was
nestling in the arms of clouds.
A lost killer swearing
with bruised arms,
raking up the old vendetta-
beheads the phallic
image. A brutalizing
score, when we were celebrating
the moon’s arrival. There was
no impropriety in spilling.
Sperm was the conjugal bliss.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem