The thumping,
Unfunctional beat,
Of the racing
Liver.
Serpent like sting;
Itching each bone
To ache; to crumble,
Into fine grain.
Jungle vine made rope,
Sweet hand-tailored faith,
Cuts throughout my red-stained skin,
Death; self-made.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem