The cold of the night has become the frost of my breath,
While my soul shivers, my silent body,
A simple composition, my heart frozen in the cold,
That heart cut by ice, its surface doesn’t rust,
A deep wound, unhealed, to be scattered in pieces,
What has this face seen, what has this body felt?
Hence this face has endured the frost,
Hence dry pupils from weeping.
Will spring come, will flowers bloom on this face?
Between walls, lights through a needle hole,
The sound of my breath echoes on the wall,
Shouts, appeals, heartfelt, yet silent,
By looking, you can’t hear the story of this big-hearted man in his face,
Does the sun ever see this face,
Four walls, a small window, three iron bars,
Years confined in a box-like nightmare,
You understand from the lines on his face,
Each one tells a story, indeed.
This dull face bears a reprimanding expression,
Marks upon marks, his breath turned to mist,
He shouted the truth without silence,
They didn’t understand him, the blind ignorant ones,
This dull face is a stance,
Etched into our minds,
Many have seen such faces,
Leaving behind many traces.
