Each punch hits the brick wall,
knocking at the iron door;
brick wall and the iron wall
have become your due fall,
staying as clueless as a boar.
Impervious to the pity's call,
closed to well-intentioned sympathy,
inebriated by infernal apathy,
erecting artificial defensive place,
in vain, hiding self-made, double-face.
Punching persistently the brick wall,
knocking relentlessly at the iron door,
asking myself frequently "what for? "
hurt after hurt to awaken moral sense,
fruitless for the one sunken deeply in pretense.
Surrounding self and distancing still further
as though the well-wisher was guilty of murder
by constructing a towering electrical fence
palpably, the self-absorbed, in particular
stay painfully and sensibly as a brick, dense!
No more knocking,
enduring bitter shocking,
spurning crocking,
no longer bearing mocking!
Scorning any form of knocking,
blocking for day and night
senseless mocking...
In fruitful relations,
truth and solid trust
perennially remain
a must...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem