Before you I was a dry erase board.
People left their marks on me, but untoward.
After a while you could still see faint lines, though.
Where they had made me smile, or had caused woe.
Many pass through our lives every day.
Write a sentence of your story, then walk away.
Well, my story is full all kinds of handwriting.
Though, so far, yours, is the most exciting.
You made me stone, and etched your story with a broken file.
The wounds scabbed over, for they have been here for a while.
You engraved each word into my very soul.
Where they will burn for eternity, as black as coal.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem