Poetry is a puzzle of words
he tried to solve
and did evolve
a solution amidst chaos.
' So he's publishing poems,
nothing better he could do;
why, he should
have become a scientist, '
a friend of his told us.
' We were college pals
slept within the same walls
but he never uttered poetry.
He couldn't share his grief,
so used his tearful sweat
to become a bloody poet
we pity him and the rest of his breed.'
We saw his photos in jourbals
bearded, learned
churned, burned
for the sake of of a few words.
Envy was an easy outcome
it flowed like piss
we could only hiss
at his growing success as poet.
He lived two years more
and died of cancer,
a peril without answer,
of him later we heard no more.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem