Down in depths of despair, rummaging around, locating
decisions and feelings of hopelessness to write about.
Next to nothing penetrates the armor set up to protect
itself.
Olive-colored sorrow lies upon beds of grief, watching
in a moment of seclusion to let itself germinate in
the mind's heart and walk away into tears of tomorrow.
Forgetting nothing, regretting everything, as it piles
like snow drifts in the dead of winter.
Folding in upon it's sheets of sadness, pulling ebony
thoughts closer than ever before, as it falls down the
stairs to death's waiting arms.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Comment is not the authenticity of any good poem. it is to realise n feel because emotions can not be read. an outstanding expression. Olive-colored sorrow lies upon beds of grief, watching in a moment of seclusion to let itself germinate in the mind's heart and walk away into tears of tomorrow.