Thrice I died, but four times I clung to Heaven's left shin,
'In! In! ' I said, but they would not let me in.
I had no identification and I had no writ of passage...
My tongue was dry yet my palms were soggy,
It was clear that my mind was foggy.
Groggy. Groggy I was.
Give me back my lifeless body.
Death in suspicious circumstances had left me bewildered.
I had not even seen my own end...
Yet Heaven's left shin was not as clean shaven as her right.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem