She was sad at one-fifteen,
she hates the world nowhere to lean,
she walks around and round and round,
She looks for answers- nowhere was found.
Like a wind chime sings with things unseen,
of the unblemished noise of one-sixteen.
And there was once a mortal sword,
to fight the dragon of noman's lord.
She fixed her self the pain is gone,
the time is hers in half past one.
For every word of noman's lord,
can ever be again the dawn aboard.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem