They're goth now.
Usually holding up the cafe wall.
Who they were
Is buried now beneath layers of black and
Weighted down by shiney, silver chains.
Their fathers,
At work somewhere,
Carry pictures of them
In their wallets as they should look.
As they really are.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
love the poem i see where ur coming from