The brain-pan is the cannibal's dream;
The seat of soul, the being's seam,
The font of man's divinest mind:
Both brute, and the devoutly kind.
The cannibal sits at the head of table
Eating your memories long as he's able,
Counting it as his finest repast,
Eating your present, future and past.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem