We die, we cry,
where do we go,
nobody knows.
Centurys, milleniums,
one question asked,
its hidden behind a mask.
Don't be sorry,
for something that you can't control,
for nothing is alive in my soul.
I stand in front of a moving truck,
I just can't decide to move,
or be a sitting duck.
In days that are blind,
theres nothing left to find.
Full of innocent pleasure.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem