the earth shetters beneath thy feet
wasps hover to thy flesh's feast
in numbered days you shall rise
forsaken bodies is your prize
their souul you keep at your sepulcher's side
as blood from their wounds slide
you hinder them from sleepless nights
to awit death and his knights
the three fates fortell your day is near
your arrival the churches will fear
frias will run with crusifixes in hand
away from you and into the promised land.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem