I peruse the tome,
The hackneyed lethargy I exudes
Is irrevocable.
I repose, solitary,
But the mirths keep me awake.
Ergo I get up,
Being melancholy,
And pour a cup of water,
Thereafter slurping it.
But being lone,
I could not relish the putative taste.
I feel indisposed,
But those mirths is eternal,
Those tormentors,
Is full of hatred.
This is ineffable,
And I retrace my steps
To the catalyst.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem