White Mirror dependent on honesty,
Black reflections of my fingertips
Plop onto the paper,
Like a ripened apple
Shaken off by summer gust.
There is soft music-
Lighting askew-
Like the sun attempting
To reach inside a forest,
Creaking auburn chair,
Cushioned with-
Hopes of beauty,
Callous wooden back,
Painted with-
Fears of mediocrity.
Why-
To prove worth-
Or avoid failure?
I do not know.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem