Alone with a pine-scented interior knowledge of death
and sorrow to be coming in the not to distant future,
pulling away and writing.
Wondering how to live through it, dying already a little
bit with every thought and image.
No longer frolicking on sands of life's horizon, now
taking steps slowly, watching from a distance, as ocean
waves come ever closer, soon to cover and swallow me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem