Obiageli's head
Aches eternally,
Since rejecting the
Duties of a Priestess,
So the illusion of
Dark psychology,
Creates an image of
False doom in her noggin.
She's been told the
Shrine is silent, that
The gods are enraged
For being utterly derelict.
They say she's been
Chosen to uphold the
Sacredness of the shrine,
And also speak for the gods.
But how can she
Serve the very shrine
That drank the pristine
Blood of the womb in
Which she was formed?
The atrocious Shrine,
Whose gods feasted on
Her mother's flesh, soaked
Her father in his own blood,
And razed the future she craved?
Such is the cruelty of
Man under the guise of
Dark tradition, and mean
Culture of oppression, with
Frantic greedy disposition.
Such, indeed, is the risible
Bypath of Archaic Falsehood.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem