He is disputatious, affecting me, exhausting me,
Like a fierce dog lunging and thirsting like monomers.
We are sleepless due to the dog of dogs, king of time,
He is whistler and wailer of the whole time inside.
My consumption of alcohol is its fault for I swear,
I swear and I swear, fortnightly, weekly, inside this decade.
The rumination is longer than stated, clear and exact,
Missing the remarkable enigmas, frozen forms will fight.
I violently expectorated, lungs were abolished, swollen,
As my consequences were important, just and able.
The dance of this apparent status of the face became a
Loser, and losers work along clarity, the clarity of speech.
So this language is sweet as the dispute outrages us,
The dog whistles and roars at just men who fight,
Who fight for laughter of the day without dogs, the kings of time,
And they are the kings of time.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem