Your machines shrill like hawks, they are wrong in the forest,
Your hands stop the jingle of a pocketful of coins as,
You sell the tree of knowledge with a buyback option,
You make an escapade from the dirt where you were born from.
Kotuu will kill you with his amber staff,
Hissing staff that lies under a bubbling creek, frozen,
You are syrup, cut down by him on his dinner plate, delicious,
It reads ‘Manufacture unknown’, produced by some mountain.
Hence, his battle ax stretcheth into your weak pulp,
Thence, you crawl and can do no further wrong,
Within the sopping reign of Kotuu’s dynasty,
Galaxies will burn out before he fails.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem