The night, pitch black, is fading into grey,
And I, sitting here, am looking for stars.
Wonder, how far goeth cries of my pray.
Wonder, whichever God would notice my scars.
My love, in her slumber, dreameth but of fool.
Here, I slain by the memories of the past,
Hoping of miracle. Return her to me, Cruel!
May it be my prayer heard, or I breathe last.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem