Let the ghosts of my past come before me.
Let them honor my self as they fly.
They've created the darkness which stores me,
Where I cannot watch angels go by.
Let them quench the light beams which surround me,
Making days feel like minutes or years,
Hearing evil sounds, screams all around me,
Highlighting the wails and the fears.
The greatest of worries tormenting,
No happiness found in my thought.
The stains of the soured, fermenting,
In this catchment of demons I've fought.
Impressing their business about me,
Tearing pieces of soul and of flesh.
These visions of blackness are not seen;
Only felt; withered carapace left.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The business of ghosts is to tear the soul and the flesh. That way we feel when the ghosts visit. Very nice!