Withering, 'neath the eye of the flame in the sky;
aesthetically pleasing to the gals walking by-
young boy winks; say's lifes' a sweet wine.
The addiction takes logic and reason away,
and you wonder if the gold was worth every shade-
this carafe of warm soured Carbernet.
Some came to pay their respects, say goodbye,
such a price he paid for a trade with the Eye
of the Sun, with his Life for a sip of vanity;
sleeps now in a sealed box of mahogany.
FjR-MMXVII
~FjR~
MMXVI
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem