Half filled glass in the front,
Nervous eyes bear the brunt,
Slurried profanities rend the air,
A wounded tiger grabs his share,
Drowning himself into misery,
Selfish giant of brutal strength,
Physical and mental in his whims,
Nervous eyes sneak a glimpse,
Finally he collapses in a heap,
Slowly the effect puts him to sleep,
Another dawn awakens the day next,
The loving man under seeming pretext,
He keeps his frustrations within,
Drinking might not be a sin.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem