if you only knew
it would have been
different
you would have taken
the hands of
compassion
but it does not matter
to me
i, this sufferer
my words are not
bound for explanations
silence is the cradle
of grief
for how long shall desire
inflict
and pierce the flesh of
my love?
this love is a bus bound
to an endless road ending upon
a cliff at night and then
falls off to its own destruction
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem