All my words come cloaked in similar colored garbs
It's time to change the ink I guess, or the ink pot.
Oh but, this is blood I'm writing with,
Since when? I try to remember; I cannot.
Ah then, I'll break this quill against my bones
and bleed myself dry.
Foolish songs! take your leave,
It's time for your poet to die.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
eeeeks a bit dark...even if nicely done... ended on a AWOL note.....if you listen to music NO]]? ? well too bad....nice poem anyway be happy :)