I'll walk with my eyes closed.
I'll protest with my cane
and bare sagging breasts.
And he won't stop me,
except momentarily
to say 'I love you'
unconditionally.
Only it won't be Him,
just another to hold my hand,
to foretell my future:
A guardian angel
bringing me coffee,
An angel of death
reading my obituary.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem