Silence so deafening,
Along with the reality, which is painfully stinging.
The truth lay hanging,
Yet she went by without noticing.
The world has lost its colour,
And it is now becoming duller.
The canvas of beauty,
Is becoming somewhat droopy.
Fiction is what she accepted,
Yet she was the one rejected.
Rejected by fiction itself,
She started to thrive for something good about herself.
Neither a home, nor a house,
Nothing satisfactory, even if she would browse.
She became a language,
That depicted the death' s carraige.
No where to run, no where to hide,
She became a book, open wide.
She wishes to depart,
Before reality rips her apart.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem