There once was a pestle which said to the mortar
he wanted to enter her when she had water.
She told him she feared that he surely would wrong her,
since he was a short one—she wanted one longer.
Life is a struggle, and love, when you wrestle,
is always a problem if you are a pestle
and find that by mortar you’re given no quarter,
ground down by your rivals because you are shorter.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem