A bobbing cork, he lives a storm of days
No battle-charge could ever be as cruel
As wakening up to his realities
Helpless as winter cabbage, human fuel
For parasitic pain to chew upon
He is the ruin of a mortal man
All honour to his fight. He will flat line
With slow paralysis, that cumber band
That tightens, spreads, enshrouds him like a cape
A living coffin, voice drool, mouth agape
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Up to his realities! Thanks for sharing.