Things we do underneath
thinking its not seen.
that of the past,
the thought to hide.
like the open cloud,
hidden to the crowd.
A mud of choice to leave
sinking deeply in it.
that we want not to be done,
the first everyday on man's thought.
that of which we doubt,
done with pleasure and kind.
Not every soul will leave
the things we do underneath.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
hahahaha, i like this poem. :)