Depart this placid room,
I could never.
For I know not of these looming endeavours.
My filthy windows render no sentiment,
only barracade the prospect of an atrium.
My walls, My ominous forethought.
Driving, fueling, nourishing my delirium
What foolish misgivings,
my cowardly soul informs me.
That daunting door could behold such a hall that abhors me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem