I am never going to be able to explain it.
Just how and why "life" became a manifested image
which did not even seem pictured by me. I don't
know if there is a mysterious sense of question or
an angry rage of paranoia to this. To what I am trying to
explain. And to think, it all started with a kind of being in love
with a look and a feel and a sense to something. Which
though has become a kind of hatred, upset and frustrated,
as if I could do something about it. While everything has proven
to me that I can not. What is this emotion? How I feel about Truth?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem