O wounded I,
that I was fleshed.
But what of those
I’d mercy-threshed?
And what of else
that I have done,
that made me
so much like a gun?
Love was but a slapping hand.
Little child was reprimand.
What ever else have I known,
O wounded I?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem