Justin, dressed in black with dusty white collar,
Looked up and informed the business men;
A mechanised horse gazed upon the beliefs
Posed by the monied men, honey was setting
Fondly and fortunately.
Justin was in desperate need of a coin and job,
The stale smell of professionalism saw gain
And fortunate occurrences of the highest order,
But the beastly smells were nothing in the end;
Surely, the preaching had been religious.
The merchants entered their cities,
Grey, rain-threatening skies were no
Match for the stale smells of the decades
We were swimming in for the last periods,
And the men had long, delicate fingers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem