I see them in columns, the colors drove home
with cypress genial hooves.
Once you see them coming you got them riding in your grooves.
A young rat can't predict the numbers
sell him gold tools and erase him from his slumbers
in stormy caves he awaits a stadium of blunders
teething, with fangs of chrome.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem