until now
he refuses to tell you the object
of his affection
the god that he worships
on top of the mountain
his golden possession
that looks at him without any affection at all
if only you could see it
it is nothing but the most common stone
any ordinary urchin of the street
picks it up and throws it at anybody
some bang their heads on it
those suicidal fools
others merely pass by and
sees it without any serious consideration at all
look at him
he is wounded by the one he loves
he is scattered like dust
and falls upon the places that he never wanted
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem