Like the drip, drip, drip
Of a leaking faucet,
One day into another,
The calendar stripes,
Devoid of any time or glory
The hours don't seem to exist,
Just the same old story,
Nothing new, nothing happens
Nothing loves, nothing gives,
In the quite anatomy,
In the silent agony
Of some game
Called Monotony.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem