Here the weekend end
i wish that i was dead
Another week to bend
the path i always dread.
Drooning, soon, will start
for five a many days
sure to play a part
i dread for many years.
'market' sing the sun
i trampled all the way
many caught the fun
i kneel in silent pray
I need a time to spare
an hour two or three
lost in this dispair
like fruit on rotten tree
i sweat for one I.B
whoi hardly knew i am.
the person i might be
wont start off like a ram.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem