Before the fete of my birth,
life forced it's fiendish fingers
into my feline eyes
and stud my light with
nights short of any shine.
Abominable, tasteless to abide by
the alms paid at my presence,
by those whose fidelity
I solely need.
what have i less than anyone
save for my light lost?
Every face might seem a stranger
to my wounded soul
but my hands had learnt to match
with my creative heart
and my mouth echoes my mind
to fetch me heaps of gains
from my world once lost of hopes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem