When the smell of tears becomes a friend,
of familiarity if not of love;
When the sheets of sadness reek
and muted wishes are carried high up above.
A prayer for the dying and the death of the living,
is muttered inside one's quiet still mind.
For death has come on painted wings, and now walks and wakens
within the souls of living, breathing mankind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem