Writing
Writing, it makes me happy
When I'm typing a sad song
For the words typed
Released my malaise.
The wrong done to me
Is invisible to the world.
There was no window.
There was no witness.
Only I knew the sense of torture.
Others did not.
It sizzled and was hot
To be touched even by a flame.
The flame blew me out
Of the plane's window.
It's blast were bigger
Than anyone could here.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem