His knuckles still drip blood from the night before
the marks added to the scars on his body
each one with their own tale to tell
not that anyone can be bothered to hear it
His eyes blaze with flames of darkness
each radiating their own chill
whatever was in them was sucked out long ago
not even a glimmer of life or joy remains
He looks down cast as if defeated
not wanting the gaze of anyone around him
trudging off alone on an unknown course
in an opposite direction to everyone else
Where he is going no one knows
in his mind it is doubtful if they even care
he is tired of waiting for the reaper to help
considering his options to proceed
He wants all his being to be drained away
not worried what may happen when he is gone
his love of life has been dripping into the abyss
just like the blood on his knuckles from the night before
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem