Once a mold has been set,
To accept a conditioning process kept.
It is difficult to change it.
Unless it is broken.
And once a lie is told...
It never becomes true!
There is no truth unfolding,
From this hold.
Like the scattering of pieces.
With no chance of becoming whole again.
Or sold as a thing to embrace,
From an existence erased.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem