There are many facets to many lives, decadent,
removing, retired inside.
Maniac lords doing what they will - no one
gets a choice except themselves.
Without any essence of being, their inherent
natures are evil.
Preying upon undeveloped bodies and minds,
their pregnant lustful desires.
Craven, departed, sick mentally for all time.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem