There is no home
Without the pangs
Of death
Wherever we Live
Its labyrinth forages
For our dear souls
At any point in time
It glides by leaving
Us with no place
To hide
For those whose muscles
Have not had the spasm
Of death
Its feeling is new and strange
Until it spits its venom
On a soul nearby and close
Then melancholy comes
To mourn with us.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem