Most of them got lost, the men of hearts got drenched
In their own sweet liquor called blood of blue blood.
I have a murderer on the loose, he strays far and wide,
Objecting to shunning faces, believing in simple phrases,
Like a man possessed, like a deluded swan in action.
I want him alive and hurt, with words for the dirt that dies,
A lot of service is required by some of the buyers he encounters;
His occupation is slavery of the highest odour and race,
Where the roads divide and sacredly spell the fortunate ones
From the not so older beasts of a slavery in our midst.
I have been enslaved now myself, for a hundred days,
Enjoying the garden with roots of gold and silver,
The start of a surgeon, an end of the curtain too laced;
This private sport is private bought, but I am enslaved in
The world at war, with thousands of years to come.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem