The weather outside is cold, like the inside of her soul.
She thinks it will get better, it will, she is told.
But who is she to believe when her mind is at fault,
and the whisper in the trees see 'cos they're old.
The scuffles and tussles of the ground underneath her
Are beggining to get messy and be convered in burrs.
But who is to fix her when she's ready to err?
She's waiting by the roadside for a car and that purr.
The winter is ending, it is getting better.
Now who's to say yes when no one would let her?
That car and it's purr.
The forest with the burrs.
The girl and her errs.
But it's not up to her.
Keys in the ignition hole.
A window looking straight into her soul.
Though there will always be a wall,
With a bridge and a troll.
The troll has a name.
A horrible, sad, deceiving mind game.
And since it came,
Depression has no fame.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem