Where the poet died
while writing what,
His hand gone by
for what he thought
Were no more words
than what he got
from on his page
as just a jot
where sickle made
was Reaper Sought!
My dear poet, a poem never dies, it becomes immortal like the poets themselves, BUT you wrote a very amazing poem on the theme you mentioned, I have enjoyed and can tell you, a fascinating poem, it flows like a song.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
2) Much enjoyed your scintillating words. The graphic is also cutest (am designer too)