My soul is wearied
I cannot breathe
My fear surmounts
I’ve lived deceived;
What I had thought
A secure mantel,
Is sore revealed
As insubstantial.
The future looms
Dread poverty
Approaching doom
Makes a mockery
Of all the things
That I thought certain;
Time rips away
It’s masking curtain;
I have lived upon an open field
Tented by what was not real;
Now I’m subject to the storm,
I question why I was born;
Surely not for this random life,
Wherein I finally found a faithful wife
Who finally gave me the love I craved
As I stumbled near my grave.
I accept as my final role
To fulfill her wishes as I’m told,
To struggle on with a final nod
To my desperate need of the mind of God.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem