Except his morning prayers,
His poem is just like himself,
A paradoxical mess;
But do him a big favor,
do read the rest.
Please pick and choose
To treasure the smallest portion, the best,
Then throw out the remainder
or put it your back-burner,
Waiting for a rainy day.
For like a marathon runner,
He is always stumbling along
Like a drunkard,
like being burned
from his behind;
Writing poems
While being out of breath.
He is being chased by a bunch of girls,
What do you expect?
LOL
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem