Find me a Milk...
oh! lips that wait the taste of every growth
haul the strength that close to weak, await
until the fierce of death shadow the palm that
close, for dine is the end that witness to lose
footprints always mark the navel path, like
chariot that run ready to fight; thou bladed
spears hunted the warrior arms while the wheel
hold the sworn that cut, hail on capture blood,
clashes that never win and tossed the flame of
death return
oh! precious soul reborn, blade me to be born...
poem by Antonio Liao
Added by Poetry Lover
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