In the middle of the room
the hand moves so slowly.
The petals open for years
rich in tears by the window
packed around, a faded rose.
Where ever spring stayed
full and green each stem was.
The one thorn so familiar did
always bring a bout two curtsy.
The swelling finger swoons gently
as the swan opens white long wings,
as feet push into the water, flying off.
The rose, now weeps to the touch
never to be touched, and life it spills.
Lifting the vase bitter tasting is sleep.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Are you talking about euthanasia or a pre-planned murder of somebody a terminaly ill person himself can't have? Mercy killing in this case wouldn't apply - to be honest I don't support it... Ineresting, nicely penned write... Thank you for sharing...