Tell me a story, mother,
and then put me to bed.
My friends have gone to heaven, all,
but my God is dead.
Bits of me scatter
and float around your head.
My friends have gone to heaven, all.
Where have I gone, instead?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Whatever the gyst is..........its still good to read.........vague in idea but good in composure