In between the digit of his penning
He weaves the will of his minions to his desired design
He speaks and spurns, you speak he strikes
Taming trust and tide
Within the circle of his desperation
lurking to cap the sign of an uprising.
Holding on to a future that is not,
With a fragile grasp that is short
And the grip of his cronies.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem