I was in trouble, learning
Ars Poetica. I am writing for the beach
where the moon meets the lake.
You would not say, but
be. It is very difficult to write with your
blood on the paper of love.
Not quite a suicide, it was
sacrificing your head, severing with your
own sword, for the mistakes of god.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem