Could you hold me
For just one second?
Let every pain be
Faint light, slowly dwindling.
The act of living
Is a straightjacket,
Mingling, and I'm coming
Off the market.
Do you see that far ahead,
Each relative, lover, friend,
Dead?
Gone is even
Your place of origin;
Next, shall be everything
Written in memoriam.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem