Not recognizing life, it trips and stumbles by, tearing my
heart as it goes, bleeding slowly, gently, life flows ever
out of me.
Taking nothing for granted, hearing only what I am
supposed to hear, molding what it is, I am supposed to be.
Trying always to be good, and never being understood,
because I am on a different plain than most.
Interior music is fainter than most others, yet I hear and
respond to it.
No one else can hear, feel or see what I do, so forever, a
stranger I will be.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem