SItting in the darkness,
Depressed and alone,
Killing himself every time each year,
In his hand,
He holds a hat,
With a small fruit in the darkness of a womens scent,
When he plans,
All of them fail,
When he quits his plans,
They win,
He is populer in the higher deminsion,
He is sad in his,
He is none other than moe.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem