At the thought of my home my mind shrinks,
And much more it does when my phone rings!
For that melodic voice that will bless has a rhythm that stings,
Haunts my heart, squeezes my blood and drinks.
While I'm needing more blood to wash off my stain,
Offering much of what I do not truly bring
That much more stain I through such benevolence retain.
Now, just like every then, there's this me to strangle the string.
Craving for this death that will feed my life with breath
But I cannot like a coward scorn my spring
Nor drink the water that can't till my night repel my thirst
Such Wisdom to posterity will make my name stink.
The cradle of me on a swing,
With many unclear sounds stealing my rest,
My mind they fog, with their brute my whole they arrest
That I resort just to the lullaby they sing.
At the demise of hopes lunges this voice with a sword,
Not to stab me, but the voices that are wrong,
And the inert me, it makes less strong,
That I have me the strength to quest for my stain a full void.
With no such fertile soil to link my root,
Through this voice I tap into morrow's light to blind today's night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem