Tradition had it in time past
that suicides were to be buried
at a crossroads
Some desolate and lonely spot
where wagons trundled by
teamsters and horses
unbothered and unaware
that remains were buried
there
Perhaps one or two citizens
in the county
knew or cared
whose mortal remains
disintegrated there
where one road
leads to hell
and both
to oblivion
and peace
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem