Asking for privacy, a
green snake becomes deviant,
and turns lunatic.
Lunacy demands innovation―
like atavism, returning
to primitiveness.
The fear becomes
your enemy. Instinct develops
to kill, to slay.
Again a beheading, you
wash your hands
with the blood of a god.
And dedicate your
life to a goddess of bodypiercing
crime, soaring high.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem