The clouds loom on innocent
Souls
Maybe not;
The sun burns some
Or fire to cremation
Still others are buried
The lucky one are ghosts
Of themselves
Away from their homes
They are all accused
All of them.
In this art that science
Is slow to prove;
Who dare prove them wrong?
But if you are not a witch
How then do you know one?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem