she spins the glass
knows that guns blazing
he'll come soon
at the ante-room
to the crematorium and bar
the pale rider
for no-one special
just another regular
who'll exit
lit-up by the fruit-machine
to the hitching-rail outside
where
hooves ascrape in the parking-lot
awaits his final ride
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem