A face like an angel
a voice sinncere and innocent,
eyes like lakes on a hill,
she walks so proud, determind, so happy...
except underneath her soul is ill.
She is so complaisant
she has composure, yet can condemn
she must absolve herself, then abound in life,
for no one can abhor her
as she accentuates her rapture
but her soul is 'ad infinitum'
she can be rid of strife.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem