every day they come unwanted to me
each second of their presence i hate
refusing as though it would matter
in denial that i indeed am enslaved
i never know from whence they come
accompanied by mournful strains
in my surprise, they overtake my world
filling my chest with a physical pain
as if i were at war with a grave enemy
i sweep them away in my displeasure
to no avail they come still in vengeance
as though in numbers never measured
a purpose it is said for every little thing
my question would undoubtedly be
what good, this river that flows undaunted
leaving stains of woe upon my cheek
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem