It was protracted suicide
Poe, dead before his time.
At the end he sold his clothes for drink
He was found the worse for wine.
A horror, like the tales he'd spun,
mad visions stalked his days.
This master of the Macabre
this day found a common grave.
No Raven croaked as he lost hope
of an earthly parole.
His doctor heard his final words:
'Lord, please save my poor soul.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem