Bingo rushed towards the plate,
Tail wagging with relief
Of hope sighted ahead,
But limp it went
At the emptiness unfolded before it.
Hope has folded its tent
And flown to the mountain
Rooted in the sky.
Bingo's bone has been given away
To the Alsatian.
On the palms of the streets
Dungs are won in a hard-fought battle.
The street is hard and cruel
Its teachings Bingo imbibes,
An albatross to the Alsatian it becomes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem