In the laundry hamper
of any bedroom in the world
a mother would recognize them.
They endured the inroads of time,
the onslaughts of garbage,
the ravage of a first love,
the rips of a first quarrel,
stains from fruit,
the rose's thorns,
the rose of love,
the bitter vomit of Saturday night,
the blood of a friend in the totalled car.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem