bitter lemons
sour lines
tears shed in anger
fustian bleak.
thunder words,
lightening strikes.
cracking whips
strips metaphoric skin
shaking their paper tigers
across blistered pages
two old scribblers
spilling ink
scabbed wounds
reopened in blazing salvos
pens at dawn
still there can is no winner.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem