You sneak behind
glories of some kind
into a loutish soul,
Like pressured air,
you pump yourself in
claiming every space;
You crane up shoulders;
give breast a ghosted balloon,
And so you name yourself; pride;
How lousy, a dead horse you ride.
But when you are wounded,
you leave a loutish soul useless.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem