My sack overweighs my alcohol,
It burns the skin of all its gold;
The luck of a box rocks the world,
One neck has to be country-madness.
My sack of bones creates and enters
The fray, the copse of this deadlock;
A speck of blood seethes the cloth
Of a long time and longest day.
I hear the tock of the candle and clock,
My bones are outspread like fortunes of war;
The booty dams the sinners, like the golden
Virtues in all the moral philosophers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem