There will be an evermore craving to write,
Cause life will never transform its addiction to cast surprise,
I have attained a prolonged quest in disguise,
Then burned out and fell to write.
Though intensity in my words scantly describe,
The injuries of my heart and anguish in my eyes,
Despite they comfort the soul inside,
deserted me with suspicions that constantly arise.
Situations endlessly twist and terrorise,
Like sound fluctuates and turn to cries,
Similar is played the game of life,
From birth it starts and charge till one dies.
The expense it puts on each every smile,
And imposes you on every breath you stride,
A daring venture that takes its price,
Its a world so strange and stranger those reside.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem