To the poachers from whose claw I escaped
I'm thankful with a kindness that is sweaty
To the hordes of hades who had my pride raped
You are without stain, a neatness that is cruelty
I would be blamed if I fail to give names
Good men who'll spare a snake to kill the pursuers
Then they will kill the snake with blames
Fair and unbiased, they will make good sorcerers
The last and most merciful of them all is none
None grieved me severely with tens of afflictions
And a whip to drag me from hell to killing zone
Their mercies compound all of my complications
Vote of thanks to Philgonard - the lame duck
Who thinks he can ride a wild horse by luck
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem