i have asked
rich women and men;
do the dead mourn us?
i have asked
the drunk and dosed;
when we are dead,
will we mourn the living?
i have asked
fathers of women,
brides and their sons;
what can the dead see?
in their tired confusion
they rise up, high
in thorned anger; attack,
bleed me cold, but
fail to break
what i know to be
unbreakable truth
only sullied love might touch.
and of you, perfection,
i asked nothing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem