The wench who sparked my heart sleeps not in her grave.
Till she was strangled she kept her word brave.
Her dad pardoned her when she lost her breath.
Drops of grief drip from my heart after her death.
If she had told my name she would have been spared
and her kin with knives sharp would have my limbs pared.
True love to me that fair angel has proved
and ‘round my mind words of farewell she has grooved.
The brutes born to ghosts and wastes won't change.
They deal with love by crude laws strange.
Crooked ways infect this human race with ease
and they know to hurt and know not to please.
No faith in God ‘lone roots out their vile nature.
No herb cures in human hearts the lasting fracture.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem