After half live-in, in
my eyes, the pain wants to go back in
the ocean to escape the flare.
Not dependent on poverty
of truth, time leaves the green amputation
on the heart. I love the space.
And the other miasma
resolves the mystery of undying words
of the healer, the mouth of fire.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem