I'll have to admit,
I was told,
I wasn't in it.
Once, I was young,
just commencing,
as we said back then.
All of them said,
and, of course, I knew
it had to be true.
I ran away,
into the deep dark woods.
Nobody had to know
if I wept.
Older now,
in my eighties,
I've been denied
my own country.
I don't fit.
Sixty million
silent voices
scream at me:
'You're out of it.'
'Stop your whining.'
'You're the misfit.''
They've slapped away
the only where
I've wanted to be.
I'm in mourning
for all we've lost.
I cannot breathe.
There's no deep woods
I can run to now
where I can weep.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem