Sometimes I really wonder:
'Was I born to think and ponder? '
I can't find the rightest way
To phrase what I do have to say
Words are failing my mind
Them, I simply cannot find
I'm supposed to 'be a writer'
As opposed to 'be a fighter'
I have my lines, I have my pages
There are fists, and bloody rages
On my one, my comrades fall
'Til all is lost, and lost is all
And I am left on my own
It's how it's bound to be my dawn
Whether a writer, whether a fighter
Nothing whiter, nothing brighter
All the same, I'm not so sane
It locked its aim, and feeds me pain
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem