Death drops the hourglass -
it shatters across the floor, sand spills
out over shards of glass -
every grain an hour.
Somewhere, a man
feels himself weaker.
A hand
tightens around his heart, sand
trickles from his eyes instead of tears -
at the sweep of the scythe,
he sleeps.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem