Alive, at what cost?
What strange steps these humans take.
My tired hand squeezes my tired face.
My eyes fall on black, and the darkness I taste.
I'm tired of this body
because I see it worn by others.
I see them disconnect from its true design.
I watch and I ache.
I see them march blindly
like mice leading eachother,
without glasses or a clue.
All of these poor mice
always marching
so that bland cheese may
fill their bland souls.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem