Life didn't admit the gasp of his age
Painful chest wounded by a mucus wall
Perhaps, fathoming on debris of triage
That which we are jailed by clichés after all
Demand comes the hour of a window
That the light and air seem so near to us
Pardons the meaning of our truce
As destitution avenges forth a shadow
Flashbacks draw sketches of his destiny
Beyond imaginations that vaguely pry
Deeds reverse entry to derail longevity
As ghosts of the end crawl in to ply
Seconds of humaneness sucks him out
Neither shall tis essence of hope shine
Merely are his eyes painting tears about
Death, for us all he leaves us behind!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem