Few have the urge to be,
marrow becoming dense,
until ribs rupture,
and shell cracks;
The itch inside gut,
and hunger eating greed.
Glorifying their deeds,
for they're of no worth,
At all;
Begging to gain sympathy,
for their ego is flawed,
After all.
They claim of purity,
wearing a veil,
made of lies,
for they're born in sin,
and dwell in sin,
Yet they defend their ignorance,
Brazenly.
Weapon of intuition,
self-taught and evolved,
Few are scared of huntsman,
who watches and moves,
Covert and stealthy.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem