Saw him in half, like a frog and snail,
Running with passion and living underwater.
My buds attach to the clarity and potion
Of this barren odorous bog of congealed
Blood, that finances are read at this hour
For their future and beyond.
Much concrete chasms encase strong dances,
The weapons of the bold and polite.
The woes'd rain down hard to scatter
In the blood-like muddy puddle,
Wearing me thin, as the abdomen encloses
The fodder, to express a sickness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem