The finger triangulates fluently,
It footworks frightfully well as a block
Afforded by the very richest free-men.
This friend of djinn fumbles through
Fungus with game and sad fun,
Hands hold gardens of blame.
The gardener’s fist carries gemstones,
The finger forks like a jet fighter.
Ice cream is swallowed with junk and fun,
That kitchens in this sense legally run.
My finger has knife and blame,
The map is on, lighting the flamboyant man.
Let victory be absurdly meat of offspring,
The fist of the heartaches commands
The milkshake coming from a fountain.
We are in heavenly blasts of milk,
Mazes astonish and ruin, less meteors,
With lesser repose of the headaches.
This is heaven and Paradise both in winter,
Nail after nail forces prices high;
Too many signs of inflation, needles spurt,
Passports are pebbles in this victorious region.
I have to be parachute number two,
This pillow causes millions of voices to spin.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem