The peel of thunder, as the roof were off the sky
And I think, gunshot, before I hear its approach and roll.
The report is of a rainy day, and him dead in the apartment three doors away;
I think he was uncomfortable last he was here -
His parting words to me, my fortune to be accompanied by such beauty in life.
Yet, absolution remains a floodgate in the temporal,
And so, I think what happens is you end up mandatorily trading in
Contrived inspiration unawares for the weight of poignancy.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem