Slipped
Got hurt
Bruised
And puncture wounds on the arm
In a snap
Giant flies
Swarm to the wounds
Murmuring songs of delight
Like bees on a scarlet rose
That within few weeks
The wounds shall recover
Dawns not on the flies
That their delight shall be cut short
Is miles away from their imagination
Miles like the moon to the earth
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem