The wind be my home.
Wild gushes, blowing silence...
Directions all unknown.
Be rested, my troubled spirit.
Be rested, my soul.
For now my life is plenty
Of mockers and preying ghouls.
Pangs to dissever:
Mystic sorcery, necromancy...
Be rested, my troubled spirit.
Be ready, my home.
For now with plain acceptance
Death will knock upon my door.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem