What to do when questions become answers,
And the lives we fought become our standards,
When down becomes up, and up becomes down,
When we climb endlessly just to reach the ground,
Who do we call when our phone has but one number,
And the voice at the other end is silent, lost in a slumber,
Do we yell, scream, and cry for ears to hear,
Or do we hang up, knowing we call only in fear,
Afraid of what must be and what has passed,
Maybe searching for that one last passionate grasp,
But in life there is no fairy tale written in stone,
For we ourselves must pen what is our own.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem