The old man, still,
Dead wrinkled flesh,
His head of gray dry hairs,
Lays in the polished coffin,
A husk of mortal cares;
Dismiss not
With a sneer,
This vestige of a span;
For this gray shell
Once propelled
A worthy fighting man;
As a youth
Enthralled by truth
He fought the fascist foe,
He volunteered 'neath foreign sun,
He shouldered gun and woe;
He laughed and loved
Then cried in pain,
Good friends bled in the dust,
Pierced by lead, blown to bits,
Dismayed by broken trust;
He lost his youth,
He lost the war,
An outcast on the run;
He returned on foot
To native land
To factory and slum;
He lived his life
In common strife
Haunted by young faces,
Who cried and lost their energy
In unnamed rocky places;
But in those times,
Those sunshine years,
He lived a life of valour,
Urgent and alive with hope;
His lifetime's proudest hours.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem