I am a suppurative sore
Putrid with a smell
Like a rotten egg
And I am lost
In a throng of flies.
By a stroke of ill-luck
For this horde and by
A taint of good luck for me
The sore heals and a scar comes
My visitors fly away
Leaving me abandoned.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem