Countless years of
lard and shadows wrestle
to shed the lies that blind.
Ogres bursting with
unspeakable sins, fiends
pulsing with audacious crimes.
Quasimodo's children are praying
in the shyest of whispers.
Not for forgiveness,
but acceptance.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Again, you flirt with excessive emotion here, in this case, that of self-loathing, but manage to rescue yourself this time with an amazingly apt last two lines.