I ask the angel
moon, can you make
a white death ?
I had outgrown―
the written words, and
will not repeat the mistake
of playing an antigame
of a game.
It will be a bad omen, if someone
says I am the God.
And I will see a ghost
in your amazing eyes.
You can think aloud
by throwing back your dark
hair, as a reminder of
catastrophe.
An eeric feeling always
haunts me. What will happen
if earthquake does't arrive,
and the spiritual therapy fails?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem