perhaps
you were born with
a certain kind of
stigma
not that kind which
bleeds like an eye
of a widow
crying
the stigma of youth
which found no pleasure
in the river
or that which pricks your
finger with the thorn of
a rose
perhaps you never had
a happy childhood to make you
a man of accomplishments
you have remained to be just
a child,
the most disturbed one which
fathered
a psychopath
sad, but compelling, true
and nonfunctional,
however, as evident as
a nail
with its head stuck on
the hardest wood,
there is still you in
the disguises of masks
in the mirror of
life
still, firm, tight lipped,
unwavering, to life, to life,
onward,
less the cowardice of
a thousand deaths which most
of the men
have desperately suffered.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem