Describing the awful upset of my losing you,
The melancholy, the force which has struck me so hard
That I have seemingly become unconscious
And have lost all capacity for right direction,
Demands that I must contradict every sacred philosophy
And postulate the existence of a physical soul.
Your absence, the thought of your
No longer being part of my life, has floored my spirit.
I fear that my vitality has been stopped.
My training in prayer and in hope's audacity has failed me.
I lack the muscle strength and the great breath,
The fitness required to contend successfully,
And then to win the match in this arena.
I have been hit, and I am down.
I bleed, darling, I bleed.
I struggle to my feet, I stand just before the ten-count.
Your blow has opened a cut above my eye.
What salve, what ointment staunches the blood!
The men in my corner struggle to fix it.
They will not let me face another round.
The bell keeps clanging,
I hear the terrible roar of the crowd.
I have lost the fight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem