he had wine, at first he did not like it, it is strong, and he chokes like a kid,
but he takes another drink and true to the saying the drink
takes him, again and again, until he feels the comfort
of wine, as friend and confidante,
a comforter of his uneasiness to life,
to everyday, and this he does every night,
taking glasses of wine, and making himself drunk,
and he becomes an alcoholic, cannot live without
a drink, cannot write without it,
he is always drunk, and wish he drinks all the wine
in the world, and just be a happy man
he writes a letter to his beloved: my dear i am about to die,
tell the world, and my enemies, i am a drunkard
but i am happy
i never stole money, never had another woman,
never had any other God.
though a drunkard, i am better than all the
sad men in the world.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem