Hung up on five and awaiting three,
strung unassured when you count-on maybe.
A melancholy-color is all that I see,
some see it gold but its fools' gold to me.
It's stab falls quick with precision and zeal,
taking you deep to where no heart could heal.
And its cut is far worse than you've heard,
come memories impaling without any word.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem