Those of us who write about happiness
fill the empty paper of people's minds
with the ink of our tears.
Writing is wiping the tears of others with your blood.
They ask;
sometimes, they ask
why we wear our silence like a torn shirt.
They ask why we print the scars on our spirits
unto their smiles.
They ask where we gather our gloomy clouds
to bring them happy rain.
We say,
we have walked in blind darkness so long
that we now know the value of light.
We have haunted our hearts with the night
that's why we speak fondly of days.
Those of us who write happiness to the world
have little left for ourselves.
And that's alright
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Such a nice poem, O. B. A. You may like to read my poem, Love And Iust. Thank you.