The squamous things that lurk,
Slick little darknesses that hide,
Deep within that hollow core,
That needling hurt,
That foolish pride,
Do greater terrors lie in store?
And that hollow core a sphere,
Blackness born in gold,
So precious once ago,
Now hosts only fear,
And one I cannot hold,
My will I do not know;
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem