My head is bowed,
as I see myself,
In a mirror I pass by,
going through hard times,
done nothing wrong,
but life has a habit,
of making you small,
dumping on you more and more,
until your back is broken,
and raw,
down to just bones,
losing love ones,
losing jobs,
losing life,
no love,
just strife.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem