So many words had been spoken.
But I couldn't get what is given.
Prose and poems had been written.
But I couldn't feel a thing even then.
Poets and writers earn their living
From the experiences they're writing.
But how come my soul is crying
From the same words they are giving.
So many words had been spoken.
But hallow are they to the soul that's rotten.
No wonder my soul couldn't comprehend.
They're just empty words that had been spoken.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem