Biðröð Mistaka [English translation]

A multitude of hopeless expectations

like an unfillable form.

An inexhaustible list of disappointments, self-pity,

bears the seal of contempt.

Every single day

a line of mistakes.

An immense swarm of half-attempted ideas

like a love letter in a paper shredder.

Your life’s work arranged in a storage room, on the lowest shelf,

unread, dusty tomes.

Every single day

a line of mistakes.

Forced to open your eyes,

you never knew that I love you— you were a hater.

Persistent yet so silent,

the crier in the desert— you hated.

— you hated.