Me - the poet,
Made up of griefs and frustration,
Stretched between skies and the darkest bottoms.
A withered winded tree
full of blossoms

Me - the poet,
Beyond all realities with deep *******,
Upon all good and bad perceived by the mass.
Poems - my dead dreams
I carry in my arms

Me - the poet,
Have no age or link with any generation
The frantic solitude will always light me
And I will proudly stand
For the solitaries like me

Me - the poet,
Fallen apart losing my all cognition
Trying to fix myself among the pieces of mine
holding on non-compliance
where I've found my shrine

Me - the poet,
Now have found my essence in empty repetition,
welcome my joyful and recuperative faith
- all will find themselves
In the embrace of death!

We - the poets!
We must endure and stand just only for ourselves!
We will destroy all 'holy' principles they serve!
You can beat them with the endless love in your heart!
I will not let you just unfairly fall apart
and we will be paid the price we actually deserve!
I feel your burning heart and feel how you grin,
now,
are you satisfied, my dear poet brethren?!