When the visitor comes
And lays his cold hands upon you
All munitions are down
Power finds a hole
Hidden in a scabbard
The strong wail under the
Cloud of despair.
Mourners' duty a bucket
Of tears to bathe
He begone deaf, blind
Turns back no more to see
The deceit of man.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem