Gala, stop, you kill me, spigot is off
dance for you, while i sleep, pull.
The bird comes, stops short looking,
eye to helm, I know in misty, grass.
Fish floats by hooked, worm has the helm
the norm is, Gala loves to jerk some beef.
Saloma ardors process, wracked hung
to dripp sweetly up Gala's arm, gold cup.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
very very very nice.......joyous moments........