With love for death his notes portray
And hate for life his notes relay
For once he never voiced a thank
Or else his love for life will flank
His note a tale, a sordid tale
Of hopeless themes so still and stale
A waste of time his struggles show
His sword now dust will never glow
His blood on earth a stink of shame
We wish he also thought the same
He goes with hope to find a rest
But misery pills becomes his best
In him will history find a foe
A coward who did detest the hoe
For us who never cease to sow
Our seeds will history make to grow
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem