Out in the cold,
The rain soaking me,
I walk with my shovel
To set myself free.
I find a good spot,
I mark my hole’s size.
I ready my tools,
Look up to the skies.
My shovel strikes the ground,
The dig, I begin.
Preparing the grave
For the beast within.
Six feet under.
I measure to the inch.
I make it suitable,
This mud-filled ditch.
The hole is now finished.
And unleash my beast.
In the hole it goes.
It’s gone now, at least.
It’s a special hole,
A choice selection.
The beast will go in their
For my own protection.
I fill up the hole.
It comes with much pain.
My beast will lie under
‘Till I need it again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
i liked the way it was kept short, to the point yet really engaging with a great rhyme. nice. =)