When I was ten I knew about God,
With the news I lifted from the fold;
A page concerned me, a page of bliss,
This proved the innocence of a man of dreams.
I took my father’s place, wrong deeds
Escalated with art, enemies of the state,
The art of a thousand deceivers,
And the art of an ardour that bore haste.
My mother’s pride was in my artists,
Left behind on a desert road,
The main tile was placed on the duty
Of a thousand honest men.
I knew about God, the way of knowing,
And the way of the fists in acts of despair.
I wisely interpreted the scriptures of men,
And then applied my thoughts to the enemies.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem