To return to the harmful carries wit,
Inside the island is a world hated,
Feeling like the gun that swings to and fro.
One bullet shines forth like death of tragedy,
Open doors collapse and close forcibly,
As the soul has vanished from the island.
A case is made, a bellowing man starts to go
Up a ladder standing by the wall of dreams,
And he falls by slipping and descending.
The guns weigh heavier than this world,
And the bullets are their servants of despair,
Fully crude, fencing like proper warriors.
Those behaviours are like seeds of the air,
One decided to believe and trust the man of
Real dress, the one in a uniform of full darkness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem