With a thick black wax crayon
grasped inside of a punch
Stabbed into the empty piece of paper
on the desk
coated in a baby's dribble which collects
Forming grease spots of grey upon white
chubby fingers pulse red
the paper is beaten
creased and covered with black scribble
thick tyre tracks swerve
the destruction is there for all to see.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem