He was an owner of a big business.
He was well-dressed,
smart, tidy and neat,
a rich man everybody believed.
He drove big brand luxury cars.
He drank best wine in hotel and bar.
He expanded his business very rapidly,
costing him loss of millions of money.
He was thrown into a bottomless pit of debt.
He was broke with bouncing cheque.
One day his wife and he were found dead,
by drinking insecticide in a suicidal attempt.
Very rich though he looked,
actually he was hollow and broke.
Every one has to carry one's own cross,
no matter a poor guy or a big boss.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem