Hope not for this vagabond soul,
Who walks the Earth like a pitiful ghoul
Mercy to those she’d come across,
Will waste y’all without remorse
She that cometh with a curse,
‘wit her, ‘tis like riding a hearse
She laughs whilst the soul cries,
Cares not as the spirit dies
‘Tis naught but a dream…her whims
Mortal hopes she killeth from within
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem