Not willing to cry
Nor able to shout
Just sitting there
Looking into the golden horizon
While the crowd gathers not too far
Mistaking my muteness
As a teenage peculiarity
Drenched with a shower
Of fame and power
But not with an urge
To join the crowd and smile
Someone comes over
And interrogates me
In an amiable manner of course
Wondering why I pop a squat and wear
A face with a pattern of horizontal lines
Seeing me with no urge to answer
He walks away to be with the crowd again
But he looks back at me
To answer the why for himself
He concludes that he and the crowd
Have their other half, but stole mine.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem