How often have I searched out the
bitter aftertaste of your company?
Has the moon now become my
friend as it hides as a recluse
behind the clouds, bathing me in
utter darkness?
Dirty, sorrow hand in hand my
pleasure and pain.
Hazed, lost again in the rot of this
unending game, I marvel that I still
know my own name.
Weary and weak I long for sweet sleep,
yet all I can do is weep.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem