I never deem my birthday special,
But, instead, very depressing.
Candle-lit cakes never bring me delight,
But, inversely, the awful night.
On my eighteenth birthday,
My age is added with one.
I'm more closer to the way
Of my dreadful death.
- One Whistle -
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem