Honeysuckle horns
of ripe July,
my thoughts love you
and count the cost.
But what costs less,
the sunrise
or the sunset.
My faults
are hungry
and they suddenly turn to me
and say
a woman i will never be.
Because i lost the shadow of a sound
catching blue flakes of the sky.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem