When that tongue of mine will relinquish and depressantly cease to rise,
Like a tied log, my hands and legs' power die down,
And the uncontrollable thundering mourn suppress the traditional drum of my town,
Help me! ! tell the God, for like the sun, i will rise.
Even when the burial plan have been finalise,
Putting on the immaculate long gown,
Lying inside a woody box painted brown,
I say....help me tell the giver of breath, for like lazarus, i will rise.
Maybe, he left his throne, into the dinning, to take his meal,
giving his rivals chance to show their worst,
Their wrath that vapourises when the sun shine, like frost,
For, only God can end my existence because i bore his seal.
Tell God, tell him, even if am not responding,
Tell God, even if the heaped sand of my grave have started expanding.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wow. Good imagery there. Great write.