I spoke to myself in the mirror tonight
because I am the daughter of the
few things seen in the hue of my lit candles.
I spoke to myself and tried
to figure out why I feel so cold.
I stood for a while,
arms straight, head high, looking
into my Reflection's eyes -
they and my skin were less pale, the
only evidence
of the trifle inside me -
And as I turned to leave, a whimper
rose up from lungs not mine.
I ran over and scratched my
surface and it bled,
And the flames blew
out from the wrong direction.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem