Stoner brows,
Not like a cows. He calls
like the midnight owl,
he caws to the sky,
to let his backpack fly by.
Not a jungle in sight,
Nor a baby that cries.
He said it wasn't fun.
Old coke and rum,
the flat waste hitting you,
Side of the head.
Flat out.
Crackhead, sleeping on the floor.
Crackhead, sleeping more and more.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem