Why can't my eyes adjust to see, 
My refection in the glass.
That darkened figured lost amongst, 
The crimson, flame-like grass.
 
Try as though I might to breathe, 
I'm drowning in my sorrow.
My knife told me he wants to ease, 
The burden of tomorrow.
 
Fascinated by the thought, 
I turn a hope filled eye.
Then, knowing not the pain I'd wrought.
I cast the Devil's die.                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                    