Lonely, the day…
Silent, the night …
Holy the Sunday.
Night in darkness.
Day is light…
Religion is fate…
All the good Christians it’s their day…
Cleansing themselves of past sins and transgressions…
It’s their day, they have to believe.
What has become of him?
He wasn’t at Church on Sunday…
In the Monday morning silence.
Found dead in a dirty corner…
Of some dark alley…
Widow stand tall…
It’s all too new to you…
Son, do not weep…
Fight back those sobs…
Do what you will…
But, he’ll never come back.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem