The black vines of love
hack the breathing lines on cove.
Our drunkard hearts await;
thirsty for loved arts a crate.
We drink like stupid.
We sink; dike cupid.
Love is foolish;
but bruising in love is goodish.
We love getting lost from loving.
If not, why keep ghosts when falling?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem