Soulless,
of a becoming..
nothing but a body,
with no characteristics of
this 'personality'
Hatred,
fills a heart,
a fool,
for fooling around,
with those peasants,
of whores.
To degrade,
manipulate,
ashamed of such becomings.
but to bury oneself,
with one night loves,
and potato chips,
oh! What agony does one must foresee,
or perhaps,
go through..
to be..
Soulless.
Perhaps.. Love. I could be foolish.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem