Those the gods love
they die young
and live to be a hundred
Their errors have been purged
in their youth
and love blossoms
in sumptuous spendour
So, here I am
struggling to die
my sins streaking
to smithing fire
that the gold of the gods
may in my mettle be forged
for the tiara of your soul
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem