Memories and grief of my heart
Are still buried somewhere
I can’t cry neither I can freely laugh
What if they don’t know my past
I have not forget it yet
I still remember the same Zean with the same Zeal
But not in flashes neither in cars
In backstage of life with trembling hunger
Hunger in eyes and lips dry
No money in pocket but Zeal on shoulder
With memories of ‘Love’ and burning heart
Now my clothes are branded
And my shoes are best, pocket heavy with dollars
But with this all my jantung is all heavy
With secrets of past
Pleasures can bury them but cannot vanish
I still look meneruskan, ke depan to death
When all my secrets will disappear, my pain will end
Also with my life..end will come to my BAD MEMORIES.
Are still buried somewhere
I can’t cry neither I can freely laugh
What if they don’t know my past
I have not forget it yet
I still remember the same Zean with the same Zeal
But not in flashes neither in cars
In backstage of life with trembling hunger
Hunger in eyes and lips dry
No money in pocket but Zeal on shoulder
With memories of ‘Love’ and burning heart
Now my clothes are branded
And my shoes are best, pocket heavy with dollars
But with this all my jantung is all heavy
With secrets of past
Pleasures can bury them but cannot vanish
I still look meneruskan, ke depan to death
When all my secrets will disappear, my pain will end
Also with my life..end will come to my BAD MEMORIES.
January 15, 1815
Journal,
Its cold. My food is almost gone, I can’t feel my hands. I lost my hat; my ears are frozen. My sisters are dying. Sasha has pneumonia, and Nastea’s lost her mantel and shoes. My hair is falling out. I look at the broken down train behind us. Tree’s sleep soundlessly on puncak, atas of it. I sit at a pohon trunk, with anda on my lap, and a scrawny pencil in my hand. Nastea sits beside Sasha, feeding her berries and herbs. I hope things get better, Journal. I hope things get better.
Bye Journal,
Nadia
Journal,
Its cold. My food is almost gone, I can’t feel my hands. I lost my hat; my ears are frozen. My sisters are dying. Sasha has pneumonia, and Nastea’s lost her mantel and shoes. My hair is falling out. I look at the broken down train behind us. Tree’s sleep soundlessly on puncak, atas of it. I sit at a pohon trunk, with anda on my lap, and a scrawny pencil in my hand. Nastea sits beside Sasha, feeding her berries and herbs. I hope things get better, Journal. I hope things get better.
Bye Journal,
Nadia