The hawk was landing.
Squinting at the urgent need
of slaughter and hope –
among the frightened hunger
of truth, of running feet
in the tall grass.
A world apart in
seeking the reality of
dying for earthly love.
I was not sure of
the manifesto of bricks and
stones falling on evergreen kisses.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem