He envied Hemmingway
everything except his death;
he envied his ability to write
neat cut prose, to travel widely,
to fight in battles and wars and
survive, to make love to beautiful
women with ease, to drink and
smoke and do as he pleased, to see
things beyond the horizon of other
dangerous worlds. He envied Ernest
everything except his death; that was
too messy, too bloody, a step too far.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem