Through the pen my soul pours,
an ink pleasure of infernal pain.
My companion's but a gentle sigh;
moulding shapes made of foam.
A flare of light dancing on the breeze,
shining through those gloomy words.
Sorrow carved to the pillow of hope,
with shreds adrift parting its warmth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem