So what becomes of you, my love,
when mayhem blooms
to the swollen zenith?
And what becomes of you, my love
when the deathly winds
dry my rotten core?
What? What becomes of you, my love,
when the giant wheel has rolled
and I have waved you goodbye?
And what becomes of me, my sweet love?
The fool to have loved
in this Tinseltown?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem