A sudden syringe in my neck,
A hot lead piece that pierces me.
Fiber wire across my throat,
He chokes me with silent emptiness.
Empty of mind, empty of conscience,
Empty of soul.
Neither likes nor dislikes,
Life and death in a constant dance around him.
Mr. Byrd.
Dr. Cropse
The Professional,
Agent 47.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem