Iam the youngest brother of
Anna karamasov.
My library contain the stories of
My grandpa and his sons
My father was an idiot
Called smeridiyakov.
My wheat field was not with
Crows
But, all mango tress
With singing parrots.
Our Bible was
Not hanging on
walls as lizards
But the holy moment
Of spirit
With the singing
Bird of thirty three branches
But, still nobody making
An iron cage to engrave me
With the dreams of crabs
Calls! ! !
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem