Should it please the gods of my fore-fathers
That I be hung for being true to my words,
Then I die in pain as memories clatter
Even though they seem too frail for these cords.
Vultures, ravens and the host of the sky,
Ye that knew my sword-strained ramble through Earth,
I bid you feast on my flesh when I die
Lest I be hauled beneath decay's rough hearth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem