The burning of flesh leaves a poor man weary.
Sick; drained out.
He doesn't really care, does he?
He wanders about-
Why could she possibly feel ashamed?
A solving of a mystery in progress.
Yet, not knowing; he's the one running.
He doesn't care does he?
Who'll get the blame?
After a few dodges; a stone hit his head.
He looked at himself in his eyelids.
Now he wants to be dead.
He really cared, dear.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem