The hands are stained
With effort and sweat
And a foreboding promise
Of not to regret
Shame in unsurity that
Threatens its hold
And with each brutal day
It begins to grow bold
Guesses that cannot
Satisfy the heart's incapability
Answers that are lost
Along with truth's versatility
A mind in a blackhole
Forced to believe suction it is
A dark, never ending terrace
Where nature's fingers don't miss
No certainty in despise
Of what is left unknown
So long instinct that right
Is where I'm coming home.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem