Only the fair few shall perish,
Over five thousand years it reigns,
The mosquito slaying,
Rabid poker champions.
On my depression,
The smiles of elders,
Spark off a cooling mist,
Not the tail arises.
He must be...The Grangonion.
His horns paint in red,
Shoes lay untied,
to this day he died.
The player sits,
He won't obey,
Sweat pouring.
He cannot stay.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem