Where will we go?
Cries the gods
When our priests go
In many folds like cords
But my joy is that
He whose action; does that
Is cannot be seen as good,
Will not be paid good
And in pain
Will have to pay cry; rain
Like a lame lion
Chased with an iron
Now that christ the lord
Has revoked; taken their power cord
To set we people free
From all our infirmity; demon spree
And this is my joy
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem