I write my life
In the nights dark canvass
Playing music of silence
I turn to increase the bass
On the other side
The holes play as stars
Years are marked with
A brush of time as dots and bars
Visuals are splotched rough
Soul is squeezed as a cotton pad
Ominous clouds as ideas
Strike down the immoral and bad
Must I go on to reach the end
And wait to mend the hem
You have to raise me high
When I am finished with the game
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
very apt use of similes and imagery from music...it ends in a wish to be raised high when; finished with the game'