Introspective is me;
woe is me, was I in deceiving reality;
I drove grimey backstreets looking
and thought I saw an angel wearing your clothes.
Forgetting I'd never been good with faith and
forgetting gravity wasn't too good, just true,
the sun rose and set on you.
I thought I saw an angel wearing your clothes but
denial in the color of the sky took my remaining sight.
My vision was muddled,
a blinded I with blinded eyes I was,
in youth, love
and other holy things.
No angels less than imaginary reside in illusions of mine.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem