Filing flutters, frantic—
Fogged forms, she falters:
"File's lost, sir."
Faceless fold, frozen—
Futility falls.
Forlorn, she sobs,
Fingers folded.
Far too much
For her.
Flickering, I frown:
"For what! "
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem