The wrist:
The neck of the hand
tingles when touched.
Fragile as ice on a lake.
Under which the waters of
life flow in red glory.
Often this paper thin skin
is savaged by the slender
blade of despair;
Red rivers drain
and weaken the heart.
The Wrist:
Delicate Neck of the hand
under which all life flows.
That's a beuatiful write about something we tend to take for granted. Very good indeed. Love Ernestine XXX
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Vincent, get some fresh air. Wrist contemplation whilst depressed is a bad, bad topic.