should i blame my sorrow
for not rhyming my tomorrow?
should it be the rush hours of the day
which in truth makes humanity so clumsy?
one puts a responsibility on the hour
only to feel like a powder of the flour
the days are flying like finches on the hills
how can anybody pay attention to his skills
the emotions are coming like soldiers from a war
a war that they lose, oh these bloody whore!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem