I sing a song late of frustration,
Pulling thorns from a thin-skinned back and breast.
While, poor me, I chide my introspection.
A real man would blow this off with a jest.
Tears would come when, late at night,
Alone, away from spouse, a cry is accepted,
A moan, alright.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem