The pigs in the sty,
Poor creatures,
They stare at me with vacant eyes
There is no pain, no fear of death in them
And no prayer for mercy that I can hear,
Resigned to their fate they seem to be
Unaware of death, these souls are.
I know, one day, I have to die
But the thought of death troubles me,
When would I die I need to know,
Of what kind of death I do not know,
Would it be sudden, would it be smooth
Or would it be after thick, painful bouts
I can only dare a guess.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem