I place my life in your hands
you sent it to my forebears
what status do you uphold by your fetish pledge
we are striked by your strike
still in your hospice we are charge
Apothecary show me your dexterizy
do you lock it up in trade
when we die by heinous curses
God gift are now your toy of play
my blood now your stamp-ink
it must seal my report before doom to hell.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
toy of play, we are nothing but toys, fine, go on..