She tells me
I am a martyr
of my own ideas,
that the world
has never been kinder,
that I should stop
living in the fantasies
of my pen.
She keeps on saying this,
but she is
unreasonable.
The shadow of her lips,
even the walls are being kissed
more often,
even the streets.
So I have to be insane,
I have to kiss the walls
and the streets.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem