Sadness is a deceptively quiet sound.
Sighing through the gauze of my heart
it considers my soul.
Unlit, and already wreathed in twilight
my broken windows gape with jagged teeth
lending desolate howls
barriers to move around.
With no glimmer I consider myself a wraith,
It's the first ever incident
of the dead haunting the living.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem