The painful dreams of bitter realities.
High waves, low tide.
Yesterday's beauty, today's beast.
She sits in where her ilk are standing out
And talks the beauty of their walks.
Misery; its sad poems are written
Upon the noisy silence of my pallid face.
Her eyes are stuck on friends far away,
Her laughter is fire to my burns.
It burns like the black coal that is her white rice.
She stares at me;
A made-up smile on a made-up face.
Images of what I thought will be
Is what I see in me when I look at her.
Shall I call it quits or quit this call?
She will cry wolf with crocodile tears.
I am a man in the kitchen, A boy in bed,
A river of memories whose bowels go deep.
My patience has withered
like a leaf kissed by the fiery sun.
She's just a face I can no longer face.
A helper who will not give a hand.
A sight for sore eyes now an eye-sore,
I have bitters to sweeten the bile,
The beast of a beautiful wife.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem