Not mine, his.
Views half clear
yet shattered by ice.
The Matyr sits.
It cries,
It may start a fire,
Could be wrong.
The sign he says,
Shows no song.
Religious gathering,
People fall.
To the claws,
of his maul.
There's no stopping.
The Matyr,
Strong, Strength, Super,
He is not alarmed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem