The trials of one's squalor
So grim and pallor,
My anxiety followed me through the door
Filled in anguish, subdued and pardoned no more;
This scepter into the short future is terror
Like peering into past's broken mirror,
The stowaways and runaways
Run from their inner demons from Monday through Sunday;
Roughhewn, tattered and worn, my tenure,
But, God, I'm thankful for all I've endured,
Please forgive me, and find my lonely and secular grave,
Reunite my ashes, thy soul to save,
Return me to glory,
This solemn and everlasting story.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
With the muse of the Mercy Saet. Thanks for sharing.