Rotten strawberries,
among dying white flowers
Our garden was perfect,
until you built that tower
But after the sunset,
that took away my breath
I forgot why I hated,
everything you made
Then after that storm came,
that washed the garden away
That tower still stood there,
and featured my nightmares
Yet nobody noticed how sick I seemed,
or how my petals had started wilting
All my fruit had rotted away,
and soon my mind had started to fade
But I could still find peace,
from that view you made
I'd stay there all day,
every second a waist
And little did I know,
that I'd spend my whole life there
I boarded myself up,
and our eyes never met again
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The images of the tower in the middle of a garden and the narrator wasting away like a withering tree are very compelling. I think in the fifth line from the last one you meant waste, not waist.