In its crystal it is hard and grown cold It has no narcotic of shyness eyes And molasses of the sympathetic speech On bottom its remained there only gulp Of captivity that enforce to behold Haughtiness of own existance And stream of bile In plexus of a veins.
Carelessly numbed in the hand He doesnt present to its owner A joy and poisons sweet taste Its transparency has devoured Hordes of ten of the thousands ones Who had despised the fury gallows Has throwed away a lash of torment Who named itself a semigod