At the office early
every morning
for the upper hand
and to wash three cups
and fill the kettle
for his colleagues,
like a disciple
washing feet
He sees the level-line of the liquid
through the kettle window
He hears the roar of the water
heated by the element below
and then the boiling,
and the water line,
in a fit of hopping and leaping,
throwing watery arms
into the air,
like a madman
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem