Maniacs in mangers, faithfuls in ruin,
This is the state of the world,
Of misdoings and future uncertain
All would focus on the man,
Whose skin as a mountain’s summit,
There is but a fervent rainbow
Screaming, clawing to be among the top,
Our mother now poor because of it,
For her never-ceasing benevolence,
Does she know of her demise?
From great blue to incarnadine,
Just to conquer time,
Pushing limits, to expect more at superphaotic,
Rendering all who behold the provisions of science,
Numbed from contrivance; filled by lust and power
From my days as an innocent boy,
I noticed these curses,
All becoming a dominatrix’ toy,
And as I grew, her grip even worse
The lesser man kept in line,
With contrivances made to fool and subdue,
Giving their payments time and time
Will we last another thousand years?
Or be wiped by narcitis
To Cure our mother of her cancer
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem