Starving is one of the worst ways to die
You can't make an outcry but the worst is yet to come.
Casting doubt is long sense past. Doom is certain.
The only thing that might save you is the fountain of youth.
Your search far and wide.
There's no one you could wed.
You try to play some chords
But they ban you.
Your mind becomes static
You revert to earlier behaviors
The maximum is erratic
You want to hide in a smoke stack
Are you buying or are you selling?
Selling your labor, or buying a job?
Business or clockwork?
To be a writer is to be a reader.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem