The last tear turns
to glass on her cheek.
It isn't ice because
squeezed in the boy's hot
fist, it doesn't thaw.
It's a tooth with nothing
to gnaw; then a magical
thorn: prick yourself
with it, thrust it in soil:
an entire, briary
kingdom is born.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem