Writing about life…
he was powerless over death,
life was what he was good at
Death, a combination
of all he would never understand
and all he would never accept
It was a major failing,
never to bring closure or a period
to the end of his sentence
Along a road predestined,
mirrored by the face of denial,
redemption unreflected—beyond his view
(Villanova Pennsylvania: September,2016)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem