All creative acts are marred by decay.
O the bold dreams that we actualise
Turn to nightmares and soon become ruins.
The blazing light of hope soon turns to ash.
When the child in us dies, we begin to
Demand proof; no longer do things seem so
Colourful and boundless. Warm innocence
Is replaced by experience's cold fears.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem