I write as the light as never been written,
But I write a proper truth,
In saying that light is nothing more,
Than the corrupted image of youth,
And light has never shone itself on my face this day,
As I sit here now only dark is here to embrace,
That is not much of a troubling fate,
For I see that light is only twisted darkness,
Only disguised by an ironic smile.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem