With a tired hand
I reach in,
Touching a broken cranium
Restrained from
The gathering.
Who etched these
Initials of conspiracy
With so rough a texture,
L-O-V-E
Obtrusive and lame?
Sighs cloak the hand
That scrapes patterns
Detached
From a feeble crown.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem