Loneliness. . .

. . . if nothing has to do with solitude.

I feel lonesome, under all the people doesn't listen they,

they the scream of my soul don't hear,

they don't know who am I?

All the colors lie on my wounds,

however they don't heal, they only cloak them.

Hide my true inside.

My cloud at the heavens almost already dissolved

under the merciless heat of the sun.

Nothing further than individual droplet this unseen there-melts

and never the ground touches.


junchen