The prophets and signs speak,
and it is patent and clear;
we are on the last page,
There is nothing left here.
The world has grown
feathers on her heavy wings
ready to spread them to fly
to her eternal destinations.
On the board of time,
on the coliseum of earth,
we are arriving at the curtail call,
where each and every one of us,
shall stand before divine critics.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem