In the vast corridors of memory,
Doors are opening to emptiness:
Where all life has come to an end;
Wastelands of unrequited desires;
Fresh blood that quickly dries
And stains old stones in the desert.
Nomadic strains of hunger and thirst;
No warm shapes, patterns or faces
Just cold, abstract notions;
Just the vanishing spectre of a rose.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A real hard-hitter of a poem about despair and it's negative imagery, but very well done. And your end line is the brilliant dark icing on the brilliant dark cake. 10++ and added to my dark vault for an after midnight reread. Thanks again and take care.