I am the slotted man,
with trees on his head.
Whilst the bird sings,
i stare at the sky.
With the tribe,
and the knive,
He not good fellow!
What art you thee?
My wilde eskimo childe.
In the Nile.
The slotted man is a clam,
The tribunal not exam
Lest exclan mest, Ahan.
Let them spear your thoughts,
with silver rapid paper.
Est Mar Zild.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem