From a passage neat and well confined
all the lies and sworn joints of bone
told of many miles on which to hide
through dust or gale a broken home
where tassels wrap around the glove
my hand begins to stain blood or ink
across hazards nightingales enough
strictures scripture who is sick
and in desperate need and reappraisal
all for something done by a label
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem