Metamorphous; Trickling on the violet rose, decaying into a crimson thorn.
As sinners vibrant words branch and become dusk, in the fog.
Their cadaver the canvas
Will truly know the swift, and elegant touch of my,
Retribution.
For I am, the dull - revitalized soul of your sufferer.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem