In my death bed, hell is here.
Tossing and turning with my bedsore.
Like flipping and burning in the frying pan.
Kith and kins love not me anymore.
Grieved I, when all seems to wait.
The beginning of the end of an ailing man.
With broken pieces of life in his hands.
In my after-life I met a girl.
Placing water ballons under my back.
That high compassion which can overbear.
The pain of a dying man in his bed.
Fed me, bathed me, manicured me.
With a heart of angel to soothe my grief.
Acted as a band-aid upon the fallen pieces.
She loved not me, but she cared.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem