For every corpse, there is a vulture
For every knife, there is a loaf waiting-butter
For every cup, there is a mouth to drink
For every churn, there is some buttermilk
For every plate, there is a stomach need to eat
For every spoon, there is a pot of honey
For every growl, there is an empty tummy
For every fork, there is a morsel of meat
For every corpse, there is a vulture.
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I would like to translate this poem