Éemo [the Strange] Poem by Hell 'Farya

K'olori dà ti ẹ sọ;
Hasn't it always been like this,
The rod used on the forebears,
Lies potent for the successor,
When the gong sound,

And the drums are rolling,
The gods again shall rise,
Forceful than they once were,
Enslaving even the powerful,
The masters shall made bent,

Night preceeding the turnout,
Like a pony on voyage,
Elegantly the slaves shall ride,
When it beats and roll,
The drum of the gods.