i watch love
making love upon itself
and it impresses upon me
that sometimes love
is not love at all,
when it takes upon itself
desire and decides to
keep it for itself
unable to think that someone
else needs it badly
ever,
when having taken it all
it keeps upon its closed hands
whatever is wonderful
walks away
and denies that somehow
thirst has been quenched
and hunger
all filled up
for love keeps its mouth shut
and arms folded
and then dies, sadly.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem