You are brain-dead
with amnesia
in winter snow.
A frozen pulse, without blood
running, bluish-black
death.
Was death always black?
Not like supple, red poppy
leaving the stigma mark
on your white shirt?
Landing amidst the
crowd, of funlovers, there
was no exit, and I must
meet my enemy
my shore.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
'brain-dead with amnesia in winter snow' loved this poem from the first three lines, superb 10+