When I die, what will not stop:
To dry a falling tear,
To mourn the passing of a star,
To curse that curs-ed year?
And when I live, what will I be:
An always sticky stain:
A legend known for all I do-
Or another dropp of rain?
But when I am, but me I am-
A life- sick, sullen boy;
With words in mind, depleting time;
And ink here for a toy.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem