With the mirror breaking
Crying, sick and aching-
Its reflective, glassy throat.
And the ashes feel like water
In the springtime of the slaughter
As the shards just barely float.
Deathly white frustrations
Coupled with recriminations
Lay now all in sparkling pieces.
Stained with life-force, oozing,
Trembling hands now using
What superficial Vanity releases.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem