A crime without victims, no pain would befall
Ripe for the taking, by those with such gaul
No voices to cry out, an alarm never cast
Peace not eternal, rest that won't last
Yet vengeance will triumph, be it mighty or meek
The fire of truth burns, for those who don't speak
Ablaze in the wicked, a chard blackened soul
Is all that remains, and will forever be cold
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
just grate. 4 grate lines. from a grate poet. 'write on'