Too fast too slow
I don't know?
Stick or
Get stuck
Irish luck-
Swing to the left
Or right
Blackness dark
As night-
And no non-sense
Words bitter spoken
Into shattered
Spaces wide open-
The last judgment
Better than the first
And echoed
Echo is now
Dying of its own thirst-
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem