In the wee hours of the morn
Black-hooded cobras
Tied to a pole
Stretched their length out.
The snake charmer
Flung the fire torches
Back to their pole;
They shot unflinched.
Deftly, he vitiated
Their vital statistics
They darted still
To spray more venom.
Their wounded bodies
Winding round the pole
Writhed and hissed
To wriggle out of pain
Yet vying with one another
To inflict some or none
They waited, revitalized,
These hoodwinked cobras.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A nice poem , I ever heard