Under the three legged oven
Burning a flame of fear
Heating ignorance to the point of boiling
That kept in a beautiful jar
The mouth of it is corked tight
And fitted in its head
A slim and an invisible pipe
Through which precipitates the vapor
Into another crystal beaker
Like the sap we drum up
From the trees of palm and date
But you cannot buy and drink them
As they are the drops of hate
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem