Well I went a knocking,
Upon Hell’s door,
A voice from the other side said:
“Sorry, son—can’t take any more.”
I, then, just kept walking
Upon life’s floor,
Wondering: ‘How is it 'I’m' dead? ”
I raised my fist’ and voice, and swore:
‘You’ll not take me crouching;
I’ll stand, and more—
Not only with fright, but dread!
Run and try and get me I’m bored.’
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem