Ultimately the god was
created by man, and Homo sapiens died.
A trembling voice said, I am not dead.
There was a poem without
a poet. Who writes the epitome of
ancien engraving onto the walls of time.
There was a holy crime.
Golden in the eyes of a song of blood
in the lone home on fire.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem