nailed down in the wood,
hallowed with
a crack down of mercy of thirst echo
in the calmness of Golgotha
the stillness
of the clouds thunder
across the bereaved disciple of
righteousness,
even the curtain of the temple
trample the wind
spear and sponge taste
like honey,
lou for lips that sweeten the hour;
words owe lingers settled every tears
a hopeless state of a dying soul
corner with pain
of broken bone, thousand of wounds
sadden of losing breath,
at three o'clock afternoon the
Man of God dies
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem