This is torture, when you make me talk first,
Plain and simple. not with pliers, knives,
Thumb screws, hunger or thirst,
But with a lack of words.
You stick the knife into my chest,
And let me grab the handle, and twist.
I dare not leave it lying, lest,
You leave me there to bleed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem