The nights tend to display for me each sorry number:
And it would feel to me so much better to be all down
Bellow,
All in body and all in slow, sleeping in the six foot slumber
Of the grave in the strata of graveyards that we all should
Know:
While bodies emolliate, while driver’s slow,
To look up at the delusions of wishes in the snowless show:
Each single light something that should never
Have existed:
Alma, you will be kissing his lips, while I should be sleeping
In the newly plowed dirt, waiting for the kiss of another
Evil enemy defeated by your heroes,
To awaken jubilant and jingoistic with so many of my
Unspoken for friends.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem