I omit strokes for your portrait. But I am yet correct at its generalized lines. I can see that I am terribly wrong at things, and it is you who will tell me what I need to get erased. I am ever wrong, and you have every right to get offended. But will you consider an adultory, someone's distinct wording for my helpless situation? If so, I deserve to be punished with your ceseless silence. You prefer to engage the best lyricists at confining our situation in precise stanzas, but not to mention my empty, vainful tries to attract a bit of your royal attention. Though noone admits that you are reigning over minds except for me, again. We play cats and rats, and it is the riddle initiated and even thought up by you, because you notice all those inner rhymes and concentrated reality within precorious, uneven verses. I am discerning the shades of your tonalities, and you don't see the point of why I should become your worst, uneasy half. I mean to ban myself the access to my former ladies, and I don't get offeneded if you point me to the worst. Your silence is full of reproaches, and I suffer instead of you, for that you felt better. The betterance and the clearing of emotions comes up, and I pretend to be hurt, offended, exhaled and out of the game. But we are yet playing, in the name of nothingness. I let you move the chess, as I cherish our common emotion, as I crave to make you happy. I hate bothering your world, I regret having touched your string, but I am a yet mean and sneaky being letting our love, breathe.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem