On Good Friday,1861,
Fort Sumter was his first decision done,
Soon disintegration: father and son,
Lincoln made a choice and then,
Down went more than 600 thousand men.
tic toc...
On Good Friday,1865,
Fate spawned a dream Lincoln would tell,
He dreamt of sailing to an unknown hell,
So it was four years to the day, having freed the slave,
Lincoln was shot, his destination: the grave.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem