Death as object seems almost too vast
To squeeze into the fragile human frame-
Though days we lived were never made to last,
And all we were could not fit in a name.
Perhaps though, death is small as other things
We deal with daily, never to suspect
That it’s both grimace, and that little pain-
We took the pill- before were beat to death.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem