I'm sitting in my chair at home
wondering who would ring or who I should phone.
Most of my dear friends have passed away
and soon it'll be my turn to go the same way.
I've dressed and combed what's left of my silvery hair
hoping someone would visit me to show that they care.
For the moment, my only company is a glass held in my hand,
half filled with 12 year old whisky from Scotland.
I've poured the last drop, so the bottle is empty - just like my soul
for there's nothing left for me here and I have nowhere else to go.
A pile of papers lay scattered on the floor,
my horoscope is good, but for the rest of the news, it's poor.
Why can't we all get along and live a happy life,
enjoy company of others and not constantly seek strife?
My time is soon to end, so what the future holds I really don't care,
except I've hidden another bottle, but can't remember where!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The reality of life is depicted clearly here. Thanks.