Grass anew,
the dew is fresh upon satin-laden cheeks.
Withstand the loss,
a storm all ending in syncopation.
Sanctimoneous yet perilous to me.
Do not care. Keep your face.
Tis an awkward day where you stop,
promises are made to be comprimised.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem