They come at eight o'clock
and never are they late
for the church bell to toll
over the iron gate.
Above their heads a school
of ravens haunts the skies.
A priest unbolts the lock;
dew gathers in their eyes.
Arthritic, gnarled, and bent,
their brittle aching bones
creak like old bordellos
a pimping cocksman owns.
They pray for their bedfellows
and cling to rosaries.
Piously they keep Lent
and wait for their release.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem