Please tell our lord, the king's good friend,
that His Holiness came today and confirmed:
the crop of sinners is ripe again.
Tell him, his reapers stand ready.
They wait to be told which hands to cut,
which tongues to slash, which fields to burn.
They want to know the names of the doomed.
They should be told which woman to stone,
which child to impale on a virile man.
They wait to learn the names of the killers
who must receive the benefit of the doubt,
and the innocents who should be hanged?
But tell our lord to bear in mind
this one request:
he must always give verbal orders;
writing only causes headaches.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem