These social rankings that you tread
Are understandably misread,
They're merely fascination disguised
As troublesome crumbs of bread.
The vultures pick on these crumbs
- Impregnated with thoughts of passion and emergency
They act with instant haste.
Midway through their heartless trek
They crumble to the ground,
Just feet from the silver cloud.
My phraseology is bleak,
Yet I sweat acumen of language
Into a ditch on the floor
Which breeds my babies now and forever.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem