there is a time for recalling
what good times are stored in the heap of those emotions hidden
in your chests like some petals of dried flowers
in your perfume box
there is a time to recompose what used to be an old you
molting like a snake and coming up with a new shining
skin and good confident hissing
and there is also a time for throwing
and junking and spitting
and vomitting what destroys us
then in your heart there will be no names anymore
except the whispers of your desires
to dusk
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem