He died to joy when the needle entered his vein
Ashes of truth, an ever ending war
She wants a funeral held for her son’s lost childhood
She wants the past to open, a swinging door
The teacher who heard him play the violin
The cousins who swam and played with him before
The golden times of laughter, strength and promise
Memories smashed like prayer beads dropped to the floor
Ever diminished by heroin’s poisoned kisses
His friends are vermin she’ll shrink from and abhor
Humanity peers out yet, from his sunken face
She shells out half her wages to help him score
Wit and music combined with abundant charm
When did it sicken and wither at his core?
A junkie’s mother goes walking into darkness
His dealer debts she works to pay out for
He died to joy when the needle entered his vein
Ashes of truth, an ever ending war
She wants a funeral held for her son’s lost childhood
She wants the past to open, a swinging door
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem