The End. Poem by Ripper Jones
The End.
This might be the final years
That they weep expected tears.
This might be the final time,
To join starry-dusts eternal mime.
Some will find the going long,
Lasting through the thunder storm.
In the city through the night,
The sound of bombs ends the flight.
The smell of burning steel decries,
A battle lost and blood-shot eyes
Now see the rubble and wasted lives.
Now starry people of the skies.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/29/2024 3:10:23 PM # 1.0.0.1119
