This feeling I hold inside, feels like the rage of all histories ancestor's combined fighting in a war zone, a war zone of my past. Even though everyone keeps saying the past is over, my soul won't let go of it. Some day's I wonder if I’ll live long enough so that my history will be told like the people that lived before me. It's just each day I can feel myself go a rye, and in all the mists of chaos the hands of my anxiety clench tight around my happiness, it seems to refuse to let it go.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem