...because of pain, one hides,
who wants the sounds of pain to be heard by
people whose concern is not even
equal to a curiosity?
one takes shelter in the privacy of
a room, closes the doors and windows
and then bleed
and shout in pain,
no one hears this tragedy
this private thing
that demands the patience
of an
enduring injury,
one keeps a record of his privacy,
here, he writes, his name is a falsity,
his place faraway.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem