I have found my fortune in heart-stabbed battles,
Breathless was the thing we called beauty,
All have seen it, all have witnessed terrors.
Send, send, send! letters to the city,
The colours have corrupted innocent souls,
Where no man wishes for any merit—
so marry, maybe devote thy dismantles.
From land I no longer see as errors,
But pain; inflict unearthly terror!
At midnight his sullen, soul-death yearnings—
He died, so long as his spirit lives,
And loves truthfully without throughs for lust
Do not be; do not give him his Told
And what role does the distressed lass befit?
Reality's all but a ruse acting tough.
"And my colours bleeds forevermore, "
the men said;
"And I will have succumbed to greatness as death soon, "
Long ago, centuries long ago,
my fortune costed millions of lives
And for what?
"Let me die upon the unwashed rock, "
"To the top I shall avenge my passing, "
"Lest he who ends himself is left marked."
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem