Money is pretty evil
but I think what eats up peace
is the private struggles of men,
less concrete adjective and concepts
that the darkness whispers to us
before we close eyes and mimic the final sleep.
It's the unmet expectations, eluding us,
the concern for the person we hate most.
the hunger for some lacquer to paint over wounds;
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem