I am fatigued
My sedentary hands
Are woebegone.
I am weak in faith
In stance
In physique.
I am worn-out
As a maudlin.
I can’t write anything
Except that I
Can’t write anything.
I am angered
The realities are disparaging.
I am flustered by surreal fantasies
And vivid nostalgia.
How do we quit this farce?
Of keeping ourselves
Moored to hostile stations?
I guess I wasn’t lost at all.
I was just never found.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem