Thy comfort read to me,
Thy life is good; thy fantasy,
The twisted lies and truths of earth,
We are nothing; we are dirt.
People tred and tred upon us,
As almost as we are monsters,
But thy bitter taste of winter,
Shall say no more; to flint.
To start a fire west;
And to end it with the east,
I hit the rocks together,
To spark in us forever.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem