Nothing can go on without thunder,
the roar of the passionate wondered,
the fabulous slender of a boar
who does not seem to care less
whether it rains or snows... or less
For in de mudded grounds,
he will sit and bath and grawl and...
And he howls, oh!
He howls!
None cloud shall ever floath by
for he would not recognise, the dirted fool, how he would
ever be able to lurk upon the sky
and see with his pearly blackened eyes
the reason of the weather
and how it all came by
And he howls, oh!
he howls!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem