it is true
love is not
orpheus. it
is much of
hercules, that
one who does it
first
and then somehow
think and
then regret.
to such an
extent
the self has
become
irreparable.
the jump is
to high
and every bone
is broken
and every broken
piece
cannot be found
and there
when you try to
rise
from such a mistake
you dangle
like a puppet
on a string.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem