And I wish that my poverty,
or my torn clothes,
would not hold you,
from loving me, or my heart.
And I wish that the monster in which I reside,
or this ugly face, that I inherited
would not scare you, from ever kissing me, or my soul.
And I wish that the friends,
that you adore, and care for
would not ripp me to shreds, or step on me,
if they'll happen to see me, smiling
in your presence.
But it's useless to wish for such,
in my world, in my dreams.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem