Seven to go
And all will follow,
As he wheels away
The gurney of no tomorrow.
In a mask
Of a thousand disguises,
His fleece of snow
As soft as an angel’s cloud,
But a fire
From the eyes of the fiercest
Lion.
In this thorn-laden road
We walk bare-footed.
As he who follows
Our own shadow.
We, the blood of the cursed
Is the wine of a serpent.
The irony that slays
The convicted innocence
Lies in only one destination
This thin line slowly rests.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem