These wounds were inflicted
By the atrocities upon this world
Numerous lifetimes of burning
Before they get old
Blinded and repressed
By the flashes of the glistening life
I roam these streets in darkness
So fiercely alone
I stumble upon a door
Of forgiven credit by the Lord
I have no ego
To sit and to beg
I take my place
In the beggar's lane
Little do I know
My fortune and my fate
Would catch up to me again
And take away my only chance
At celestial gain, yet again
Disenchanted and distraught
I left the house of the lord
tired, hungry and cold to the bone
Got lost into the darkness
Of burning fire all across
Death was consoling
sleeping ashes
Of burnt out night's
from before
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem