It was the end of the world you bilth for yourself,
the palaces you’ve raised have fallen over you.
all the canvas you filled with passion are gone
so as your eyes, vacant as pain.
you killed your hope in an act of rebbelion
against all that is beautiful and timeless.
no more soft sleeping, your sheets are rotten.
no more of your conforting and shiny arms
cause your hands have became claws.
crows smell your weakness and gather around you.
you became prisioner in your own dead town.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem