A question was asked
Upon the pleasantries
Towards expectations
On nothingness
Rather than the belief
Of faith, and all that
Tugging on my strings
And trying skin
Were forsaken tales,
I'd rather not go there
Anymore; It was what
Made me… this
Let us not search
For a shovel
That will unearth
The scabs underneath,
For now I sing a hymn
That cradles me numb
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem