The stones will speak for
river bed― a perfect home
for drowned principles.
Like shrew you enter
the belly of jewels to talk
to a bronze Buddha.
He stands in vigil,
your godhead, after the thieves
plundered the frames.
The small hands pointing
the pistols at the heads of
ancient fathers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem