like the beetle he lies in wait,
with claws so sharp and a deadly gait,
yet like the mantis he readies to pounce
a beast in his own right, yet more ounce for ounce.
He wanders the lanes, ready to strike,
when he does there'll be no avoiding the scythe,
a curve of night, yet lighted too,
as in deception does its damage accrue,
The predator lies in wait for his prey,
never sensing him in danger doth it lay,
mildly passing the idle time,
ever growing closer the deadliest rhymes.
Even the beast is no match for the,
Kha Zix the voidreaver, a foe to flee.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem