sometimes accept the fact that
we want to be someone else that part
in us which we dislike or hate, we
want it trashed, if only we
can skin it off from our bones, we
could have done so, but in so doing we hurt
each nerve, which creeps to the deepest
part of our soul, and the pain is so
excruciating and we learn this lesson
of pain, which we cannot endure and
so we just let it be, we just let it
be, like those thorns in roses, those
prickly things in cactus, those needles
in porcupines, those shattered glasses
on the road after Christmas, those
nails exposed in a broken house.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem