(no subject)
This is in response to staticentropy's poem translated with the Game of Four (here).
The basic premise is to translate a piece of literature using words of not more than four letters.
Not Dead Yet by Bill Hen
I come out from the deep deep dark,
From pole to pole, dim as the Pit.
To the gods whom I owe, I hark,
For my soul will not bend a bit.
When I felt that I lost the draw,
I did not flee nor moan nor cry.
When luck did beat my head all raw,
My gaze did not yet turn awry.
What lies just past this sad, mad land
Is but the fear the dead must face.
Each year will fly by like the sand,
I will not stop nor slow my pace.
I do not care how thin the gate,
How far my sins can drag me low.
I am the lord of my own fate,
I tell my soul the way to go.
The basic premise is to translate a piece of literature using words of not more than four letters.
Not Dead Yet by Bill Hen
I come out from the deep deep dark,
From pole to pole, dim as the Pit.
To the gods whom I owe, I hark,
For my soul will not bend a bit.
When I felt that I lost the draw,
I did not flee nor moan nor cry.
When luck did beat my head all raw,
My gaze did not yet turn awry.
What lies just past this sad, mad land
Is but the fear the dead must face.
Each year will fly by like the sand,
I will not stop nor slow my pace.
I do not care how thin the gate,
How far my sins can drag me low.
I am the lord of my own fate,
I tell my soul the way to go.