Noel was meant to dispose of them
He must not have, as usual
And to senility, I bow my head
Victor over youth and vigor
In a silk pouch, what death lay for children
And nightmares of tiny white coffins
What a jest we had in the end though
Abominable escapades, an ace of spades
The smell of napalm halitosis
And yellow fingertips for all others.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem