Suffering is not poetic now.
It's just a pressure, aching in your throat that you have to bow.
"Things get better", that's what i hear, i hope it is a true vow.
I realized i have some fresh wrinkles on my forehead,
Is it because all that happened or should i put the blame to the habit of my eyebrows?

Silly 5 year old me, such a great pity,
For him to think he could fill the deep hole carefully,
By pleasing forbidden bodies, intuition was screaming for him to flee,
No danger sign warned against transformation into something he never ever meant to be.

When lights of our stars collide,
Only for it to provide some lust and a bit of pride.
All of the storm and misery we set aside,
Touching others just caused more times that we lied.
All heavy chests that yearn for love suffer from this viral infection although hardspun masks try to hide.

The saviour that quiet boy longed for decades and years,
Was all along his future mirror stepping into being twenty-something after a billion tears.
The one that would give him all the love he had ever feared,
Was his own bleeding heart caged in reseda - at least now for me, it cheers.

Every translation is an act of betrayal.
That pain in your semantical chest, such a precious tutorial.
Creating a new product just for the target or remaining loyal,
A choice of yours, to be a bridge, to be medial...

It got too old, to be stuck between target and source,
Sometimes it flows as a river, and then all eyes can sense the force.
Regaining what was buried under your soul, the skopos,
And maybe that's why you found strength to delete those photos.

While robots translate texts without feeling,
Nida created what we call the equivalent effect, for months; he was trying.
Creativity is a sick man now, bleeding from coughing,
Perhaps dictionary cycles exist to be completed.