In last journey he wanted to have
a free run without rumors
of reconciliation.
From years back he watched –
friends, disappeared one by one. He
became his own enemy. The ravines
were waiting for the sacrificial throw
of a bound martyr.
Between being and action
he was ready for the kiss of death –
from a ferocious opponent,
whose chest spread like a hood of cobra –
ready to strike. His ghost will walk now
on the clouds, days in, days out,
to read the black lips of blissful time.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem