The room where lies
the bed of roses
has its narrow path full of mines.
The straight man,
whom many tip for joy,
had informed my sense,
of his flats there in.
'When you do the good'
was what I got
when its keys
I demanded.
But finding reference
from one like me
who could hold with joy
the keys in storm
had powered my doubts.
His resume he thought was fully stopped
as the commands he kept to the brim.
His prologue had all in the right,
and the following chapters likewise
His epilogue of flaws,
caused by unavoidable ants
who forced his hands to steal their lives
sums his sewing days
and bear his ripping store
But is this man
who from his whole life aim
misses on the whiskers
be made colleague
of the sworn good rebels?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem