The vultures are circling in crimson skies of hate,
for the slightest dying of wretched resolve they wait.
They look to each other, who'll first the carcass pounce,
a gluttonous grimy greed, scared to miss a failing flesh ounce.
The count in percentages in huddles of lubricious lust,
a ready made nest to lay their deceit and tarnished trust.
With what blood I have left I can smell them nearing,
slashing the last vestiges of pride, laughing and sneering.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem