My pens have nailed me to the tree; red ink pours from my veins...
Though in the distance, fancy free, lost singers voice refrains...
If I had written songs instead, a hero I would be!
If I had known what lay ahead, would I know Calvary?
Yet here I am, now hoisted high, for all the world to scoff!
I asked, Who? What? Where? When? And Why? I couldn't shake them off!
Thus day-by-day and night-by-night I wrote my poems down...
Perchance that others would delight and somehow soothe each frown...
Alas, my critics sought my death, 'What purpose does he serve? '
It seemed they loathed my every breath, 'He has no place on Earth! '
Thus I was hunted like a fox until my final day -
And then they laid me in a box awaiting Judgement Day!
Prophetic poetry won't be slain! Its spirit will live on!
By God, its power will still remain when all my critics are gone...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem