the whole day there is so much thinking
and something that i cannot understand
runs inside my spine
it is like a very thorny vine
a porcupine perhaps
or some kind of a new breed of
an urchin
the whole night they will all be running
over my head
under my hair
the conscience who is not a stranger
shall listen like a child to his mother
the pillow cannot help
on this matter of an indecision
to be
or not to be me
to hate much
and set aside love
to play and
forget the rules
to sleep and wish
death
to wake up
early and then
regret
please slay me with your love
that which this hate
plans to achieve
too quickly
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem