One thought keeps going round my head:
The thought of dying in my bed!
Slowly withering like some overblown
Flower the greenfly gnaws and makes his own;
Wasting away like an old candlestick
In a deserted room, grown pale and sick.
translated by George Szirtes
Sándor PetőfiHungarian poet, revolutionist 1 January 1823 — 31 July 1849 |
One thought (poem) |
Details:Time of publication: September 7, 2011 Length: 230 characters Favorited by: 0 member |