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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem