The galaxy has no movement
Like a norm from ancient cultures
Shooting stars fall like dead soldiers
Tears of the moon like acid on wounds
And, the heavens beget hope for heathens
Mounds of greener crests
Beneath, lies deadly lavas
Eruption, is an awaited prophecy
Butterflies displaying freedom
Maybe god is mad at us
And, at the backseat is humbly seated
With a bag of popcorns, watching
Watching as we become victims of our deeds
All the fires, we set
When we burn, we cry
And the devil becomes our blacksheep
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem