Torn from perfection,
Ripped out of hate,
It is on its way,
To find another mate,
To suck the blood,
From those who are sane,
And take the souls,
From those who are blamed,
Every single day,
For every little thing,
That will and has,
Gone wrong with its brain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem