One belonged to heaps of gravel,
The late arts were suspended in tragedy
Of wonderment and betrayal.
His small body was wrongly hanged,
Responding to accusations of right.
One retreated and sinned for too long,
Down the other side of the river.
Writhing in oaths, we wrote strange messages
So that we howled our ways to victory.
One heaped oneself to misery,
Tragic kindness helped us along the way.
I was a champion cold, a devastation direct,
With valiant roar and cutting technology.
One responded to the hilt of swords,
The return of the season of hope.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem