An Ideological maniac
With thy constant threat of end
Careful in his approach
He counts each second spent
Impossible to breath
And yet thy lungs inflate
His heart pumping pressure
To victor yesterday
He is Satin on thy shoulder
Whispering words of hate
I am the angel getting colder
And thus will accept my fate.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem