A cactus, lonely in his pot
up on the sunny windowsill,
they watered him but he was not
a happy guy. Without the thrill
of a relationship of sorts
he suffered silently and cried,
across the street species cohorts
were having fun most every night.
They had petunias, even roses
and multicoloured foreign flowers,
right next to them, (and shared small hoses,
exchanging fluids at all hours) .
He lived like that, always observing,
for thirty years, then he keeled over.
His life had been, let's say unnerving,
he died, made room for a small clover.
They called him QUADRO for some reason,
(I think he might have had four schlongs) ,
and in the Spring, the silly season
he used to sing such lovely songs.
The lonely cactus, long forgotten,
the clover thrived, it was a he.
It shows that luck sometimes is rotten.
The French would lecture 'C'est la vie'.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem