With that ephemeral
tragic talk show stare,
to cut through your most
elaborate mask
of martyrdom,
you dissect my vivid colorscheme
as you would a photographed still-life,
to destroy all of the negatives,
As if all that we've become
was inevitable,
But you were the one
that painted us grey,
And true martyrs
don't pass the blame.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem