I’ve lost myself, but now
I’m found, bruised and beaten.
Pure in my unsaturated pain,
Drifting between realms
Of borderline-realistic illusion.
There is always one scene,
A reoccurrence, a replay,
A single realization stuck
In infinite and clumsy repetition.
The image of you, walking away.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem