Vie with the restless branches
Of these floating skeptic clouds
That clipped themselves
To your fancy red gowns and ties
Like the perfect hurt to a note
Watch me cut myself to shards
Until I can no longer
Piece myself back together
But with all that is said and done
With a finger pointed to the skies
Sworn upon my beating heart
I believe this to be true,
Look at me with those empty eyes
My heart still sings the best melodies;
Your whispers mean nothing to me
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem