Driven to the edge of existence
With much blood-thirst
I find my path in the
Broken pieces of glasses.
The distance which I should traverse
Remains in the hesitations of
The torn-down feet.
My dreams and realizations
sitting before the mirror
Turn their face in the opposite direction
In the private rooms of days
| My life which refuses to move up Murmurs in a tension unspecified My poem which sees the world through the eyes of spring Describes it in words Anemic and insipid Which fill up The mouth of the autumn season. |
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