What do we know?
So much, and yet,
Of nothing are we sure,
That may not be invention,
Of those that fake History,
And take advantage,
Of the few Innocents left
In this valley of imperfection,
As the light of truth gets dimmer,
And our blood line to our History,
So much thinner.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem