I used a rusty razor blade for nearly a year.
In a matter of months I may no longer be here.
That razor blade ruined my liver.
When I think about it, I shiver.
If I don't get a new liver, I will die.
My chances of getting one will be slim but I'm going to try.
My wife and kids are falling apart because of this ordeal.
They're having trouble accepting that I'm terminally ill.
A man gets a different outlook on life when he's about to die.
I notice the birds, the flowers, and the big beautiful sky.
If I can get a new liver, I'll cheat death.
But it must be soon because I have so little time left.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem