I stood there panting at the top of the hill,
I turn to the left to see if it's real,
Figments of my imagination all start to appear,
It was death, the one we all fear,
I start to run, trying to make haste,
for I did not know who I had faced,
And with one small gesture and a touch of his finger,
the smell of death soon starts to linger.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem