What can infringe upon this will to live?
Our desire to spill one last drop of blood
Nothing given is enough, so I strive
To give much more than, what's adjudged.
I ink my heart like a bleeding stone
Every tarred feather is plucked clean
Given pestle & mortar; ground to the bone
The dust I leave you I grant is serene.
But if it isn't and it's still stained red
Know that I've given all that I had.
And nothing was done willingly misled
Aren't all our words like tartan cloths plaid?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem