The talons of desire are upon us all,
The brush of wickedness is abrading the fold
That covers us, with stimulated light
And stunted might, a grievous penalty
Awaits the apology.
My talent is a mallet that strings itself
And waits for the mighty day to be and
Say a sitting of mastery.
To part with terror tenses my muscles,
Mattering to most as a penalty.
For the desire of my ire is superior
And the penalties awaken the polite
Debate aroused in us all.
The talents are solvents in the sea,
Mixed to bring what is rightness,
The fish sing to the salt of the oceans.
I smile once a day, with a style to master
The payments of a master who cares
For the whole while.
My smiles pursed, I canter and swim
Like the animals of the earth and sea,
Little life asks for the attacks of sacks
Of glory.
The glorious matters gear for the wars.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem