Who is she
the girl who never speaks
her mind in public places, the one who's
afraid of her own shadow
in a crowd.
The one whose nose buried deep
inside a book; between
pages upon pages of
somebody else's depicted dreams, not
day by day sunrise to sunset
fufilled lives.
Turn the page, skim to an
anti-climatic part.
Fold a corner, turn out the light.
She'll return again tomorrow
to her bold typed friends
and sigh a wistful surrender
once more.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem