Holiday
Tired and sick of work
life turns dark,
a dirty brown.
I've done too much,
still I work each day.
It feels dark and dreary grey.
Two weeks in sunny yellow
is where I'll be.
Two more weeks to go.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I feel exactly all the same, work can kill the soul or the ability to be happy...Keep on the excellent work