Memory has an often subtle way
Braiding with strands of moments
Knotting at aimless ends
Its prodding leaves blocking any glimpse
Of a present vision, some chip of bark
Real is a crisp cicada shell
Molted remains of another wasted experience
Locked in a fruitless embrace with a lingering violation
A crime creeping around a stunted limb
All climbing vines and other leafy debaucheries
Hosting on this fragrant trunk, struggling blossoms
It chokes the life out of the very branches
Trembling under the ever pressing growth
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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