Running the relays,
Stunting in a sea of sweet smells,
Exercising its fleshy structure
And softening its texture:
The meat’s gym
Is my pot of soup.
Morning, noon and nightfall,
The gym opens at these shifts.
Up and down and left and right,
‘Tis doing its dying rites.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem