If you disbelieve my Writes, then you can go to Hell!
I'll write vividly of your trip with Blood from my ink pale.
Young I am, but not a dunce.
My scholars knew me Not.
They thought I'd be another name.
They thought I'd die and rot.
I Bleed my mind onto a page;
And true I do bleed fast,
But in the end, we shall see
Whose blood will grow the Grass.
I'm young, but these poems Are really me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem