Tower of the red
Of flames
Of games
Without a name.
Blue blood
That drips
With every breath
That heaven grips
Flower that bends
In chill and unclad
Still.
No rays of scorching sun
No dazzling drunken run
Of pitcher wine
No, no
Just
Tower of the red
Of flames
Of games
Without a name
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem