Wounded by unceasing reality
Fears so childish that they play with my delicate thoughts
All the aggression in me ought to be surpressed with time
As I pursue my goals I lean on sense of anticipation
Memory of yesterday cannot be erased
Image of tomorrow still shallow like a crooked sound
What lives in me is the phantom of opera
Bound by truth and caged by circumstances
I ink a wrecked poem that cannot be construed by an avarage intellect
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem