As I bake
Often I wonder
How it was
The first time
Perhaps someone
Last of their flour
Was wet
And bad
Bubbling and smelling bad
But all they had
Placed it on a rock
Hot by their fire
Watched it grow
Watched it brown
Picked it up
Took a bite
Of the first
Bread
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem