Edema set in now,
ankles and belly swollen—
the future past looks foul,
the self soon to be fallen.
Yet, the will lifts the feet,
and carries umpteen years
down the stairs to the street
for only ten more beers.
Then, the return, ascent—
four stories up the stairs
to white walls and the rent,
the heights and the lament.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Sad, such an addiction