Slender beams of light enter
This darkened chamber as I kneel
Always a slave, always sorrowful,
Frozen here,
Waiting
Tortured forms wrought in panes of glass loom
As dust dances in the air
Forming an image in my mind
Spearing my darkened eyes
Blood on my face
I raise my head now kneeling before
This impassive salvation
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem