So many,
dead poets,
and alive,
lonely souls,
exposed,
scotch,
whisky,
vodka,
now and then,
again and again,
time and other times,
drowning their sorrow's,
for their tomorrow's,
until the sweetest,
moment comes,
when they finally,
drown down,
with no more breath,
and no more sound.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem