Miserable table. To you who left without saying goodbye. Hit, Dad, hit, all that's left of me is rotten meat. Poor and difficult for God himself. Publication.

Abstract

POOR TABLE

My dear underage sister
Under the apple trees
As a fragrant fruit buried

Just winter
He dug twice

The ground was plowed by snow
He intervened like a white man
With a pinch of salty tears he said goodbye again