You picked a flower
name unknown
and pressed it between
the passions of two poems
in a book you read
where it left
two stains, you said, once red
as the heart is red,
but then, with the spread
of time, just smudges something
like two dead moths’ wings
covering words
you never learned by rote
that long ago
some poet wrote.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem