So slow the minutes of the day,
Are etched in your hard wood floors.
In the charnel house, where your spirits lay,
Only resentment is something you adore.
And forgive me for not being perfect,
For this perfection is something to be deceived.
I hide behind a smile that you painted on my face,
Bitter lies, twisted bitter lies.
I only feel pretty in my shadow,
When the sun drowns my sorrows, my such stubborn regrets.
What I once knew you have taken.
And for that you are nothing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem