The portrait reflected disillusion and pain,
Swimming in the bleak eyes on the canvas,
Painted with broken, diseased colors,
Splashed, botched like an unwanted caress.
Hypnotized I peer closer, drawn unwilling,
In fascination, my error soon revealed,
The disparaging mirror above the mantel,
Reflects the image of which I am reviled.
It once was a lovely, beautiful portrait,
Which myself and many others loved to gaze at,
But pride and evil have taken their due,
Now the image is a cracked, discolored mat.
Those that now attend me, all white coats do wear,
Shaking their heads in sorrow at my face still fair,
Only I see these images of my cursed face,
Through the eyes of madness, I lost the Devil's race.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem