I am dying every minute
My soul is slipping away
I cannot stop life’s progression
I cannot halt my own decay;
My poetry lays in cartons
Stacked in boxes in my room
My history of failed loving
Dusty echoes of my doom;
My muscles grow more rigid
Self conscious of the pain
I fear the loss of movement
I’ve who moved in vain
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
take heart, poet, your poems would not be in vain for the posterity. You strike a sad note here, David.