It was forty years ago today,
In New York where he longed to stay;
Near the doors of his apartment rise,
With devil's envy rising in his eyes;
So he laid his confusions on John.
The curtain in the temple tore,
The cavern cracked beneath the floor,
And the needle scratched across his song.
I want to let him rest in peace.
Though that was not his nature.
The assassin doesn't seek release,
And it doesn't really matter Bro.
For John is dead,
And I'm lonelier now.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem