Dark night,
I was deep asleep,
The wretched skeleton appeared in front of me
In my horrible dream,
He stared at me with his gloomy eyes,
He was weary, hungry, thirsty and half-dead,
He accused me with great emotions,
"You have never written any good poetry about me,
You are selfish,
You have written brilliant poetry
Only about the healthy and wealthy men,
As you know they are the real treasure,
Can you deny it? "
I was stunned,
I had to listen to him,
I knew in my heart
The gloomy skeleton was absolutely right.
So the skeleton was half dead? Did that make him only half as scary as a live skeleton?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You can't deny him a favour like this...good one!