Where is the shroud?
Where are mourners? Where are
The woods? Where is the fire?
Death... why are you sitting on the bed!
But he doesn't answer..
Death is in my room, but the shroud
Is not here, the mourners are not here,
The woods are in the forest, the fire
Is not born, strange! ! !
Death is in my ship, in my crooked ship,
Like a soldier torn by ample war...
Death, DEATH is in my ship,
And yet my ship is sailing! !
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem