The old man sits, weary, by the broken cross,
Where God once whispered secrets to the wind.
A serpent slithers, born of shadowed loss,
While heaven weeps for what it could not mend.
Satan's laughter echoes in the void,
As light and darkness wrestle for the soul.
A son, with weary eyes, is heaven's choice,
To cleanse the world, to make the broken whole.
In bitter silence, angels turn away,
For blood must spill before the dawn can rise.
God's hand, unsteady, strikes the final blow,
While Satan smiles, for even gods must cry.
The world turns on, though truth is buried deep,
Where love and loss in quiet graves must sleep.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem