Twelve thirty five
three shots ring out.
The Presidents been hit.
He's dying, no doubt.
A ghost stares down
at the Motorcade.
Another clutches his throat
as lifesblood is splayed.
Their drama plays out
at Dealy Plaza
Without the blood
or the Dura mater.
A great Man murdered,
A vision gone
November twenty Second
Fifty Years on
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem