They say a writer, a poet,
must write what he knows.
For that we must exhume
painful loss and torment.
I saw the rack and torture.
No boasting, it is a curse.
Love seems not to love
the few to punish defeat.
I know I'll always wonder
why love cast me aside.
Should I write what I know?
Then you must go with me.
Down an empty dark road,
I would travel not alone.
Turn away from me again;
I do not blame your fear.
My way is fraught with pain.
Best to run before the snare.
Some destiny is set in stone:
to live, to yield, to die alone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I do look up which of your poems to translate into my native language.I find it better to ask you which of them would you like me to translate.Do, please, barry, propose me some.Five to ten.i would be very pleased.
Dimitrious, I'll try but I am probably a better writer than editor.