The earth’s magma shook from the roar of thunder,
Piercing through the night’s eye,
Like Christmas songs in December,
One wonders if it’s a blessing or curse from on high,
The pauper defies the wailings of the heavens
On his already worn-out skin,
Bent on reaching the tavern before its closure at eleven
Just to drink his life into a new spin,
Molten metals are fired
From the masked men’s barrel
And the thunder belches anew
From gulping their sound.
The pauper lay lifeless,
Trampled upon by the rain unending
And the emerging moon-shine seamlessly
Casting a shadow on a death untimely.
Was it the lightening or thunder?
Or was it the fire from the beast?
I wonder,
But just close to midnight, the vultures had a feast.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Was it the lightening or thunder? Or was it the fire from the beast? I wonder, But just close to midnight, the vultures had a feast.heeavenly bodies are gift from the God and it should be takenas blessings..... vry nice poem abut has to be takenin right prospectives.....10 read mine...moon..sun...silver lines