There is a kind of sadness
that spreads on my cheekbones;
that makes my lips stay still
and my eyebrows rise.
River turned pond.
There is a kind of sadness
that freezes grins
and makes my pace slow
and heavy.
Spring turned winter.
There is a kind of sadness
that
makes me sit still and stare
at a world no longer mine.
Star turned to vacuum.
They call it melancholy.
I wonder why.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem