Nine.
So mournful.
Yet, dripping with growth.
Give me no mercy, once again.
Nine.
That wretched time.
Away from myself.
Fountain of lies.
That oddity awoken.
A part of me, then, died.
Replacing certainty with unknown plans.
The fear eternally alive.
Nine...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem