A turtle crawled from beneath my scarred rubble.
He wore chains of gold possessing the utmost of shelled masculine glory.
Breadcrumb trail of backtracked Tuesday glows upon masked wonder, differentiating between who's true.
Who's blue and grim upon us?
Twenty seven foulmouthed stingrays defined my lonesome scrabble.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem