Happiness is a smiling poet
Reclining on a death bed.
To us his consciousness bequeathed
The temerity to revel in his poetic works.
His words veneered in excellence
Are an extension of himself,
The undying vestige of the powers of creation
Vested in his poetic abilities.
Silence as his last poem
Whisks way his breath
And on us dawns, his non existence.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem