At last
At a great age
I finally realise
whatever I put my soul to
is prone to rot
as if I were dumped into a rotting pot
and the magic touch of gold
which does happen even now
that everything I touch lits up
for a while
and unlike the same make-believe
the gold huddles off to rot
So much as at the end
there remains little
barring my soul
only too eager to catch up
with the rest
that I ever called mine...
So I learn to keep my all
in a casket
my love, my passions, perhaps even my God
with ember and lime
that they might burn
as do I
and together in close embrace
the pain might keep us
alive...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem