Π ο τ έ μ η ν Κ λ ε ί σ τ ε
I'll ne'er quit
E'en if th' pain hits from form to torn
I'll ne'er quit
My soul drinks from heretic urn
I'll ne'er quit
The lord's seed withered now that I'm old
I'll ne'er quit
And Terra's bliss o'er me mould.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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