Death becomes a late visitor that promised to come hours ago.
The meal is set and getting cold.
Not even a fly has arrived carrying the message of his delay.
Impatience wrinkles the brow of the host that sinks into his chair with tired bones.
Anticipation is overwhelmed by fatigue, his eyes droop.
He sleeps.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem