Eight sides on bottom the top is round
And when it’s struck it makes a sound
High in pitch, but sweet in tone
It’s not quite clear why it’s alone
Or why no one has picked it up.
It’s awful lonely, that empty cup.
All that left is residue
Of the sweet liquid she withdrew
But I digress it’s over now
It’s lost it’s charm, I don’t know how.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem