Healing doves and angels will not return
From heavenly climes to this wretched earth
Which hangs in the balance. And dreams will burn
In lakes of fire. Nothing of any worth
Will survive when the birds of prey descend
From ravaged, wounded skies in their thousands.
The metal will pour down without end,
Under the orders of a cold command.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem