Tell me,
how would you die
when the call comes?
A hollow skin―
with no viscera― underneath.
Will you cry―
while breaking away from the earth―
carrying your own urn?
Elysian vision―
was not very clear
and Styx was full of bodies.
There was no space left
to celebrate the liberation.
A parchment paper
with your fading name printed;
after the petition of right
to exist, undying
in deeds.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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