He holds the gun up high
acts as if its a token
looks above and asks the lord why
he tried to clear his throat
reaches in his pocket
and then slips out his note
he grabs the other bullets
opens up the chamer
even though its fully loaded
his feet are planted in the mud
pleading for a bloody flood
once more he puts the gun in contact with his head
the rain is pouring harder now
and then thoughts of her in bed
her face is on his mind
his finger on the trigger
thoughts of her leaving him behind
a red sweater,
now covered by imposter leather.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem