The ebony coffin of hatred counts down my life as time.
It is the cubists delight lighting my downfall,
For with its negation do I find myself
A new and lonely soul in this world of ten.
Incognito I go to beat the blight to fight my fight
On the cold hard wood.
But alas know not I, mine own function
But with God's hand perhaps do I release my sovereignty.
Bringing with it the grace of my will,
To me alone, on the day of the kill.
So tell me not of the lethargy of my status
Inside my own altar.
Tell me instead of the message of my presence,
In the state of being, and feeling eternally fixed,
In a position most high,
Six hand leads onto six.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem