I am a boy of 13
With borrowed dreams.
Mama and pa are chasing the society.
Unheard, my heart screams.
My paintbrush lost the battle
And the stethoscope grins.
Aunt Lenin comes every weekend
With a basket of Joseph and Robert Hymns.
Shivered brushes and dried colors
Lying like the funeral things.
My secret is neither alive nor dead
Still somewhere it clings.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem