A painting!

“Why do you always pay when we go out?” – Asked she, staring straight at me.

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The Painter

The madness on their eyes
and the blood on their hands;
That disgusting grin
which wont leave their mouths
and that sad sadness
that sleeps on their chests;
Their legs, that hardly move
as they approach their deaths;
On these rivers of tears
there,
is where I find myself!

Lost in translation

Trying to translate a poem, is like trying to repaint a painting in a completely different style. Like repainting a Gogh’s painting into a Picasso. It’s not that the translated poem will be bad, cause it can often be better than the original. The problem is that it wont give the same emotion, it just…