There are books of unread poems
On my dusty shelves
That no-one reads
Many don't know they exist at all.
I will leave them
In my will,
With my Gothic antiques
To the Dead Poet's Society Museum.
Where they will sit
Unread, unloved,
On a dusty shelf.
As in life
So in death.
A poor poet's life in print.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I really like this and the thought flow is quite successful, great poem!