The Heart never gets broken,
It can only bleed, profusely
Or intermittently otherwise;
Out of the joys that lurch out of,
Corner paint the picture red,
Blue and green whatever, and
By the time the decoagulants,
Ingested actually begin to work,
The musings would have turned the
Thousands pages blue and hue.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem