The perfection of the postponed reflection
every little damn thing circles projection
the inner world, it shines to hard, hurt ones eyes
rather go blindfolded than becoming mad
it seems sad but the head opts for more whys
it puts us out of the game called reality
we become the protagonists of misunderstoods
we're walking into the mystery -us woods
where sounds and words hit the heart
just to sin again, anew an aching start….M
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem