Pale face, so very fragile, feeling of glass.
Covered in darkness, playing in gardens.
One holds roses, the other gets scratched with the thorns.
They look almost natural, unless you actually see,
how reality has treated them.
They laugh and they smile, waiting for someone to come,
and set them free.
Shadow children and porcelain dolls.
Playing in meadows and sitting on walls.
Do you notice them?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem