What happens to those
who are always tired?
and those of them
who are never inspired?
They fall through the cracks
of the kleptomaniacs
who've taken from them
since hell was born,
stolen from them
with unmitigated scorn.
These are the multitudes
born here to cope
with life's unfairness
and its disdain,
excepting their fate
that does remain
a mystery to them.
And so they wait
for the miracle of death
to set them free.
And give them an answer
so they can see
why life is not
what it was meant to be.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem