In void of departure, you get
a rose a day. Your eyes were very red.
Was there any violence in your path?
What should be done,
when the moon becomes very small like
the man, who will rise from ground zero.
Your queen of night
spills a scent of unknown smell.
I become a bohemian of suffering.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem