Under the moon my friend and I we understand
that bored people are boring.
So we left the village as I did not want the drunk
to become to familiar with grace
he did not posses.
My drink is my friend as the bowl I eat
from is also my friend.
Respecting the bowel for nourishment
of the body while the wine holds
steady my soul.
What would any one know: really I have long since
gone yet my words of clarity strike hard
home to the gnomes in my village who cannot hold their drink.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem