you like the way your hair
denies yo
ur age,
the way your language takes more
color, the sunrises and
rainbows
you like your silence
nothing incriminates you
to the murder of
old age
at 50, you gain more par
value,
antique gold
bowl
sharp sword displayed
still on glass cabinets
useless...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem