i have written nothing else
the book of my life
lies empty; waits
to be filled, i dream
of being filled, all full of you,
full of water so that i might sink
like the summer i learned to
swim, when i still sunk
as if i was filled
to the brim
with so much water,
so much blood
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem