Standing on the edge of the cliff,
i wonder why,
the flowers of my tree,
never blossom into,
a fruit at spring.
Standing on the edge of the cliff,
i wonder why,
the fairy tale which,
i built out of my dreams,
got burnt over night.
Standing on the edge of the cliff,
i wonder with,
black tears stinging,
my delicate eyes,
at the cartoonist,
who gave shape to my reality.................
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
a poem of strong emotions and vigorous realism...