'Cuz my life is shaken to its
authenticity,
And slipped into dreadly sleep
Of worries and sorrows, I'm stirred.
Deadliest nights and days
Sits by me, and nurtures terror,
Lost inspiration to utter, dumb with
silence,
From one frail I hold another breath,
O lord, let me know when my day is
Anymore, I can't smell any flowers,
But thinking of further hours
I have lost the composition,
My poetry rhymes with death,
Inside I am consumed by the blow
Of thine days numbered,
Too late to keep the composure of
my potrait,
No more pictures do my presence
That floats on hights of death
show,
It is lost in the shadows of idle time
And I have lost the exit of all these,
It seems tomorrow is my funeral.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem