The world is a Stygian crypt
Where man hides and does his whims
And toil for his sins
He builds upon the world a magnificent edifice
With a spire atop
Here he strides in his best attire
And shouts upon his voice
The name of a deity he loves to disobey
He gathers from the poor
And poorer they become
A reverse of the injunction of his holy book
He brandishes as a holy man
And his outward mien is good
But his heart a bad one.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem