I disallow the root of shame;
He is not worthy when he comes home.
The chattering starlings are there
To blame
The Murderer Cat. He lies in grass
And hungers for the same:
A dull emotion, hardening to pain.
The claws of one so sharply bright
Incise the mind, the genitals,
Let rip an absence of delight
And brings home a battered carcase
Where
The Alar Throng can view it all
And chatter in their might.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem