Scars on veined thin skin
We plum forget we earnt
From knives and stoking fires
Scalpels edged in shining sharp
Briars and jagged broken glass
Baseball bats and tripping falls
Until curious decides to ask
Then we, oh that?
Yet unseen the scars we hold within
Beneath our painted forlorn faces
Beneath the layers of time and life
Lying deep as aching broken bones
In sterile hospital rooms that moan
They throb and hurt and percolate
Steeping stewing as an Earl Grey soup
Never far from mind and sipping
With open doors and scattered drawers
Their memories always ajar
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem