Perhaps my emptiness is greater than your own.
To test these levels is a testy thing;
Bruises from tawdry love scraped against
My aching face, and yes, there are stages to it:
Grief, and always its sister emotion, doubt,
Which tempers the fire held by gaunt rooms,
Outsourced beds, moody dressers, and mirrors
Unwashed by masters who think they're in control.
Lust truncated; it remains a wild dove kissing
Olive branches. They stare bemused into
Unknown faces and unknown territories.
What can I give, but wholeness, which is heat,
To subvert restraint, to give breaths to instinct.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem