„I am the ninth, a bad position.
But he's still walking."
he's still walking, a head watching a body
as it staggers on. but where is he really,
his real self? in those last looks
he gave from the basket, or in his blind steps?
i am the ninth and the month is october;
the cold and the hempen rope cut deeper
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem