Carves her little sobbing's niche
Little girl, out beak's
Sun-accessed of sounds' habit.
What, of day, Joy speaks.
All torturousness boils air
Aches, for to transmit
This, buffets brittle heart, most
Apt to shatter it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
little child freaking mind tears drive the wave of timidity!