The weary day slowly ticks away
But the journey seems lengthy by the day
Even at the dead of the night, the watch
Trade in earnest launch
The strongbox no rogue cart away
Yet these limits in my heart lay
A stabbing sore in my subtle paunch
O! I bewail the bunch
Of endless gnashing brazing its trail
All night, leaving its sour savor at dawn’s tail
Caught in the muscular rhythm in the vault
To soar above the madness, of neon-faced gods
Yet the Lazarus at your gate!
The weary day slowly ticks away
Yet, in my last legs I dress thy estate
Even my plight I do not flaunt
I shook this beefy plow
Without looking away
I’m the Lazarus at your gate!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem