I sit and wonder why have the time i often cry
is it because of the dark room, or the handle stick of a broken broom
a hand strike at night or a hot bulb from the kitchen light
burns and scars are all i know, on this face i will not show
a mask would be great but it's to late, shadows of me will be all that you see.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem