Let me give you
A sip from my cup
Of arrogance:
Proud am I
Now that I'm weak
And open
For the beating;
Boastful am I
To the anguish
My spirit
Comprehends.
No, I shall be strongest
When I'm weary,
Dying by the corner
Of hopelessness
And grief.
Look, I'm sill alive.
Who then does spell
Victory in flames?
Let no one
Chide me
Of my happiness
For it is when I'm weak,
I've conquered.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem