Red is its color,
A liquid thicker than water,
Blood is what it is called,
An injury,
A wound,
Is that where it comes from?
A wound,
An injury,
Some where within my body,
That is where it’s coming from,
Hidden deep within,
Some place unknown,
Crimson liquid continues to show,
Skin pale as a ghost,
Muscles grow weak,
Hand that shake,
Stomach that turns,
A mind filled with despair,
Thinking of days long forgotten,
Days of summer youth,
Wishing that they had lasted,
There were happy times and there were sad,
My life was normal,
Until I noticed a crimson line,
Silently I cry,
Alone in a dark room,
I am not heard,
Is this the end?
Is there any hope?
How is it to be stopped?
Death will dance,
Death will gleam,
Death will take you,
Fear with all of your heart,
What the crimson liquid means,
Death has begun its dance.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem