Waiting for the fall, vultures circle over.
The smell of death, cries on the wind.
The accuser waits in ambush.
Hiding in its lair.
Tasting blood before it falls.
Counting a premature treasure.
The victim moves forward, hungered
and seeking to quench its thirst.
One foot in front, one step at a time.
Weary but not dead, it knows its
being watched. Its not a fool.
It leads the accuser to the place of vengeance.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem