Your salt hurts me.
My twisted fingers search your
wet eyes. Moon remains blind.
Ah the navel of the snake, ,
was beautiful, when it climbs your chest. Oh
Cleopatra will take a wash of two hundred milks.
The thorns will invite
you to kiss the roses. After some time
they will be spread over the tomb of a poet.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem