The net that hooks
One to one
Bleeds when severed.
From broken threads
Small needle screams
Puncture hope,
Call death cracks
To multiply, race to fracture
Flat facades
To powdered fogs
Of blinded indecision.
Lay we now
In crumbled rubble.
One reprieved eye
Calls out for
A shaft of sun
To splash warmth
Across dismembered fields.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem