None shall ever know. Not even Them:
the ones who act so self assured. (with low scaled grunts
and lower hems and ahems.
They do not show what crime they've done.
What they Stole and Ruined and took for Theirs.
From the Purest and most Heavenly SUN.
They took it and gnashed it in their fat teeth.
To slip within their nerves and appetites upon their sheets.
They act themselves so harmless, and respond to no sure word.
They live so shameless in their crimes-only part of what I feared.
They EXHAUST the meaning by it through.
That they think it theirs, it becomes that too.
They work with five or six.
To shuffle up The Fix.
From any individual's love
And any individual's because…..
Instead they wait for BULLETS.
Bullets to spur themselves on.
They want to contemplate themselves to be a deep romantic Heroic Dawn.
Of VICTORY by Ego Clean.
While stealing ever dignity of life that's been.
They do not want to die in pain.
So they wait for BULLETS as their professions' vein…..
In Vanity, obdurately, they act like they've done their work.
With each crime they strengthen themselves - and think of that-
their Enslaved Clerk! Their Criminal Work is their Upfront Clerk.
They wait for bullets for to die without Pain. Committing their
crimes by secret intentional Vein, so as to not die in too much pain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem