The saber swishes through
A layer of air,
Sick with chronic suspicion,
And hot-knifes through my neck
Like a foregone conclusion.
The head, severed from sin,
Drops with a thud
At my feet,
Muttering a feeble excuse…
My life was not
Faute de mieux;
I had earned it by being undecipherable…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem