It feels like pain, it might be love,
punching the heart with holes
to breathe but too small to satisfy.
I lick a taste of it but scarce;
gasping for more to fill the space,
to get ecstatic, wild, intoxicated.
I weep before it gets to climax;
the road's too clueless to follow
that I eventually surrender.
To the hell with Love or Pain,
to cold hearts that hesitate,
too standard to override a moment
or too cocksure that one's heart
is infinitely patient, like the current
that always follows the stream.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wow! Great poem. Is it pain or is it love? There is a fine line, but it has to be drawn... to get ecstatic, wild, intoxicated. That is the goal-
True. Thank you.