</>His hands seemed far too cold,
Scars and broken knuckles,
that were never fixed,
atop soft fingers
so still and feeble.
Tears were far too wet,
flowing clear,
from my two twin pools,
of watery wet pennies,
behind blinking eyelids,
fall down onto the bed.
The sheets were far too white.
A thin layer,
of cotton snow,
spread across the broken beauty,
of precious landscape.
Her words were far too few.
'Don't go.'
Words cut by sobs,
salted by the tears,
of the angel in the room.
Her eyes were far too red,
staring infinitely into,
reality that the world,
would soon be a bit dimmer,
once he was gone.
'Stay.'
His eyes were open wide,
He finally saw
a reason.
He sayed.
For she deserved nothing less.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem