He needs just one shot,
Gunning from times that change,
Smoke drifts looking down on us.
We see his profession, tall manners
Of a tall story, one accusation is all.
He was tired, sitting in the smoke,
Reminders of sin had parted,
On the housed parts, their harnessing.
A tiring man was tired himself,
Tiny voices strangely timed themselves,
From the charity of the weird.
Guessing became the objective
And truth was banned.
The truthful man triumphs
Where others are vanquished.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem