Was that a robot
claiming friendship
with the relics of past?
Or a quirk of a raw nerve
conversing with history:
and we will wait for centuries
to build a new scream
under the pale moon
in wingless night.
Whispering sex to flowers,
bees scrambled on the skin
of wooly leaves.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem