There's a page in my book, I can't seem to read.
The pages slash my fingers, if I try to skip ahead.
To learn this language of symbols & letters unknown to me, is what I need.
The book of crying, is what makes red ink, until the day I'm dead.
There's a page in my book, I can't seem to make bleed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem