Fantasy hastens its wings over long hours of play,
Whenever you roll dice probably spells disaster.
Fantasy occupies the soul from a new position;
A solid hope has spun a discord, a funny spell,
One of thatched houses inside which are witches
Only sold as themselves by the well-adventurers
Who delve into the Marco Polo exploration of a life-time.
I want them to win, and Dungeon Masters speak ill of those who are higher.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem