I
These walls of my prison hath endured many ,
suffering and suffocation,
to me, they are the sweet calling of
liberation.
Nature, how you reminisce life and death,
come to my disposal today,
and see the man. who will dance at his decay.
When the noose tightens round my neck,
I shall be smiling at the angel of death,
who hath finally come to my rescue, O you lightening! Then show yourself, mark the moment when my misery is dead.
II
This world hath been my prison, my life thunder accursed. The day I was born, I heard wars emerged.
My mother who awarded me life showered me with love, until I was poached at five, by a human trafficker.
He took me to a land far way. ****** hades,
enrobed me in smelly rags and paraded me through streets. Since I wasn’t pitied, he cut my left hand.
And hence came a shower of pennies.
Pennies that went in his pockets and
sufficed his villainy.
I was granted a plate of grub in return, and perhaps no whipping if the pennies were his satisfaction.
And he comes home drunk one night, his inebriated body betraying his senses.
Ready as a bird who is to take flight,
I slashed him with his own dagger violating his defenses.
III
Henceforth I began to tarry, penniless and aggrieved.
The world hath plenteous monsters,
and I met my piece.
As I slept on the frozen streets of this cursed land,
hunger clenched my stomach. Sick was the art of begging, a remnant of my stained past,
but I knew no other.
Outside a fruit shop, I saw an old man buying yield. I fell at his legs and begged: “Prithee give me a morsel of food, it wilt save my life."
But **** he gave me too much and taught me slavery.
With my one hand,
I swept his house and dusted his medallions.
That he hath earned courageously
on blood bathed battalions.
And one day, his ruddy daughter comes back home.
Her name, Messina Oehme.
O Messina, whence thee hath come from, paradise? Thy pulchritude is a vision fixated within my eyes.
Thou art like the first rain in a desert, or an Alchemist’s prized long-yearned stone, At the touch of which,
even dust turns gold.
Thy eyes deep wells of lust,
where I want to see our future compart.
Thy pale skin like the fantastic summer sky,
a glance at which burned my heart.
I quoth, O Messina, let me not smolder alone in passion,
thine art my souls only desire.
Even the grace of saints,
couldn’t unshackle me from love’s holy fire.
But misfortune hath come my way.
Thy swinish father wedded you off to that wicked Glover.
And at thy wedding I fixed the chairs,
thy one sided lover.
But O Messina! Thy art still the summer that brightens my life. I became an hourglass, thine love, my sand,
slowly pouring to the bottom of my heart,
yet never vanquished from my soul’s devastated land.
And I remember when thee came to stay at father’s house.
I saw wicked Glover bruising thy angelic skin.
He hurt and discolored an angel.
The heavens thundered in protest on this mortal sin.
Rage devoured my soul, as I heard thy shrieks,
more horrific than the trumpet of doom.
I picked up my dagger and impaled his heart.
If evil fails to transport a fiend, then love does, to his tomb.
That madman deserved his pudh death. My dear Messina,
thee wilt live free. But thee looked at death empty and desolate heated. I quoth: “I gave you my life.”
That was the last night I saw thee, thy love defeated.
IV
Why a man who loved so incessantly,
will end up hearing the knell.
Prithee God, if heaven at a fountain of love,
Make my fate into the fire of hell.
Even if I write as much as the sea,
I cannot explain my misfortune in epistolary,
Who wrought dole dost naught justice,
to some it gave fulsome, to some nary.
A man named Wérig in prison recounts the events of his misfortune accursed life on the day he is to be executed.
Wérig means unfortune and weary.
