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Laceration, helplessness of herd

Fetters and wolfish fangs

With sharp blade rip the belly open

Suffer the sainthood’s stench

Mother who loathes her sons

Throws them scraps as if they are paupers

Slaves’ paradise, imbeciles’ world

Fool will not learn from the whip

Extirpate what should not grow

Humility’s weakness, inferiority’s sainthood

Burn them down with fire of black

Bury them in salt, sew them up in womb

Sprout deep with seed of blood

To chasm where there’s no light

The spark has gone out, now comes the fire

That will give warm in deadly ground