Winged creatures fully covered
in black robes, slowly circle
over my body and head.
I depend, on what they are:
If they are Angels then I am Nothing.
If Dragons, a solitary Stone.
If Aircrafts, a fearless Rebel.
If Vultures, a useful Carcass.
If Flies, a swine's stock meal.
I wait with large bunches of notes,
each printed as Hours and Days,
to pay them to strip their robes.
Their nakedness, holds
My true self.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem