When you're strange
the glamour
of the world is
always out of range.
You stammer.
People who are feared
are never free from fear,
go very soon insane.
All of us are losers
in a world hijacked by gain.
When you're strange
the douceur of the world
is always
out of range.
Our minds are dirty cages
crammed with beasts in pain.
When you're strange you bite
the barbed-wire of your brain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem