I press my hands against the glass,
No longer able to touch the grass,
That waits outside in summer’s breeze,
And surrounds the sweet suckle trees.
I bang against this glass that’s frail.
It keeps me prisoner, it is my jail.
I try to scream, “That’s not me! ”
But that is who they really see,
A person who clearly looks like I,
And in defeat I fall and cry.
If only someone would notice,
The one with the beauty of the lotus,
Is a weed hidden by disguise.
If only they could see through the lies.
Some time passes and I watch her leave.
And all that is left for me is to grieve,
As I watch my reflection becomes me.
My image in the mirror is now free.
I am but the reflection now,
Trapped forever by ancient vow.
I am the one you see behind the glass,
The one dressed with old class.
I raise my hand to copy you,
You who is loved my very few.
Then the old man chimes twelve,
And the mirror is to be shelved.
But it is now you, who is trapped,
And now it is time for me to adapt.
Your world is now all mine,
I have finally crossed that line.
I have reversed the reflection,
And turn my back against your objection.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem