It pains to be like this
So alone in a busy world
Where few stop to read
Or realise a truth
Imagination and intelligence
A modern day curse
Of which to suffer from
Is the unexplainable
Lonesome hours
Never understood
Anguish and fever due
A weed is but a flower
That holds no love
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem