crawling through old books
and photo-albums,
looking for a story that might
sell him hope,
he found only eidolons
and himself getting old.
there was nothing spectacular about it.
he put a gun in his mouth
and painted a mural with his brains
across the grandfather clock
he'd bought in Germany in 68.
the groundskeeper called the police.
the police called someone else.
they took him away
and tossed him in a box
and left the blood and books behind
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem