He knew that the one
who shoots first
is more likely to survive.
Thus in agony
he took the first shot.
His blood nowhere, not a spot.
It was time alone
that dripped on the road
from his eyes.
The howls of a dog were distant and long.
A wolf as well it might have been.
Yet silence that followed few could have foreseen.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem