there are people whom we adore
and the danger lurks where we can be lured into imitation
and we slowly become
fake, lost out into a world where our originality melts like snow
muddy.
with mouth agape, we follow, eyes fixed on what he says, our hands more wiling to undress our bodies only to follow the colors that he is wearing
he is always older, he had become wise by his years of experience
and you mind every word, every written sentences
amazed by what he has to say
in every moment
what have become of you? a follower, ready to take the paved paths
and you will forget about your own scythe
giving up the power of your hands
it is a pity. You have become an It.
The light in your forehead is put off.
You lose your form.
Your content is gone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem