Did you feel bad.
Bad about what happened
to your friend when I.
Lips open,
to have all that's next.
Don't forget your tounge.
How it reacted,
to the taste of snow.
Tied down and more.
There's a furrow I have.
A patch of it comfortably so.
When you talk to much,
nothing gets done except that.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem