If I could grasps yesterday with hands of today
This present pain might melt just enough
To create a puddle with a mirror image
Of whom I once was
Yet, yesterday was not meant to be linked
To this fever stricken moment
Father time has been crude
In his collection of recycled time
So this snow white must
Continue to gaze up from her
Crystal blue sarcophagus whilst
choking on
The fermented fruit
Produced in deaths deceitful garden
The same ruby red appetizer
Handed to her by god’s disciples
During her last supper where
Love once courted her supple sanity
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem