Well, it was 3: 02 a.m.
He came into my room again;
hell-wise, doom-paralyzed
with that type of guy
He just hovers about
cutting and cutting my heart out
Sunday shadow-sick boy
calls me his bright Darkness toy;
his rebel reality-rag doll,
whispering that I dreamed it all...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem