We had our Fiends when we were fired,
We have learnt the true name,
Having the ignorance of humans,
But an eternal worry of blood-thirst.
Having evil potions, of an infinity,
Is like being as wary as a witch,
The witch must not die but live!
A rune causes it, the potion, to reduce
And leave us in plight afterwards.
It is our inability, our joy for structures,
It is to save us from plight
And satisfy the blood in our flesh.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem