whose heart lies broken,
in tiny pieces reflecting even
the faintest hint of light?
whose soul is bruised,
whose lips are scarred?
whose tears fall,
like thunder in a cementary?
whose silence burns,
in the bitter cold?
whose breath hanging,
like clouds in the sunset?
whose hunger sharpens,
the web and the cave?
whose longing, whose storms,
whose desire that howls?
whose life hanging,
and who carried the cross?
who are we if not lovers,
if not dreamers who dream.
if not the gentleness of the hand,
and the fire of the tongue?
who are we if not history,
if not tomorrow and yesterday?
who are we if not the given,
stars that waited to fall?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Hey, who are we if not rambunctious poets who like to make love to this world? Good stuff here. ;)