The buzzing screen
In the brain
masks the ubiquitous
and transeternal pain.
Voices
drifting on the winds of space,
leaves from the Tree of Time;
telling the Seasons,
warning of disasters to come,
(or already here) ,
of evil lapping at the threshold,
of the omnipresent worm,
of the spider spinning his web
in the palaces of Kings.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem