Scribe your name with the tip of a feather,
Your sweat as the ink
And your grave as the post.
Write a letter of your past
And the title 'lies.'
Bleed your heart out,
Allow all to sit and listen,
Then re-enact a play,
The applauses become less,
They all know the game,
'cry wolf, ' die sleep,
Coat shaved,
Stop, listen, as a liar
lies in his grave.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem