You have clean hands.
You don't hide.
I can read your signs.
The rising violence
makes the rich tombs. You
stand like a Buddha.
From the ashes, you
can build a Homer's Troy.
I will not visits the site.
The legacy of moon
suffers. The doormats become
rich. Why fake daddies?
A brain stops midway
in jungle of no words.
You want to sing.
You are scared of me
for receiving the gifts.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem