Very scary, I admit― 
your vintage― 
lovemaking with 
a ghost.
Life in a crate was 
creating nonpoems.
Water on the ice moon 
was never there.
Unmasked you shoot a 
songbird in flight.
The soft music went into 
the barrel of the gun.
Come and meet my other 
self. My penchant for talking 
to flowers has made 
me a martyr.                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                    