It's written in the books,
with no rhyme or reason,
on the blank pages,
in the places,
hidden by the passing seasons.
Empty words on empty pages,
and for what,
I ask,
for what.
to be read,
and die,
and live,
with no life,
to prove your mind,
isn't on,
quite right.
or just to run.
or just to hide,
a while,
in your mind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem