What, then, shall be his lot,
His lot and his lot of games?
For in truth we are overwhelmed
By his words, passing by him,
Leaving grief on the pages of
Conspiracy, the books of yearning.
To this torment is added constitution
And deceit, the strength of his charisma;
No snakes are present, now and forever,
The bite’s pain surpasses our mood
That we choose, the very oddity of loudness.
Say grief over bliss, say this moment of eternity,
That is absolute of man, the very oddity
So well achieved.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem