The scorpion that dances is not sterile and kills itself
Its tale curdles into a spiral even when into itself
On this particular day, the flames erupt the angered ground
The ground be no hotter than the poison as the scorpion stings itself
Its blood, a myriad of fire, bubbling out from the destruction done
Its claws rise to the sky provoked, tossing up the suicide of itself
The crust of reincarnation might give this creature another chance
The cruelty of existence shrugs off the death of life itself
As easily as Christ could by mistake trudge on the death of this vermin
Then human events of this world would be altered, the scorpion did not kill itself
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem