My shadow reaches out,
picks ripe fruits in orchards green,
ferments them in heady intoxications
and mixes them in blenders.
The flesh best discarded
and only the pure juice drunk,
most suited to noblest rank
but my shadow does not shun
pulp fiction.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very clever David! ! HG: -) xx