The stars are dying
Frizzling out
They are stamped by the foot
Of mediocre
They are the minority
Who look at the future with shame
The silent truth in the midst of noisy lies
'please, ' they weep
Kill me but don't quench my glow
Let my blood spill but save my works
My art
My babbling and gibbering, shrouded
in the truth
that you never relish
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Ayaka, you should never stop writing o. This piece is genuine and unique, a sign to more.