I know not whose blood
do i wage war with more
But this pestilence of rage
that grows inside
begs no reason to the fore
Since these hands i call my own
have betrayed the love
that once i wore
It no longer stands to reason
there be hope for anymore
Shame is a comfort
Pain is a friend
I will not see light of day
Or have a hand in gain
While you offer me
your other cheek
For a wretch like me to mend
In what feels like days
I'm free in my fall
to accept my sins forever
As I contemplate their fame
These 30 bought me little
Not enough to pay my wage
But enough to buy my name
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Profound work on a timeless theme, betrayal. The iconic instance. Great piece.