Why are poets so sad?
Why are the writers sticking feelings
in things that don't matter at all.
We, writers, poets, scribblers of word.
We feel the cold stare you on-lookers deny,
we allow the warmth knowing too well it's tragic end.
We don't close our eyes or our hearts,
to the treasures and curses of this world.
Why aren't you on-lookers sad?
We, writers, poets and scribblers of words,
are simply, being honest.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem