Owners feed them the best,
exercise and massage their necks,
train their ire
in bamboo cages beside each-other,
and display them at the fight
to gamblers,
who call out their favored's color
and make bets,
based on the loudness of call,
with the nearby,
the afar
and the owner,
who spits 'wine'
down the throat of his charge
to fire that feather-ball.
Mine, Puteh
v-ed Merah,
White v-ed Red,
whose first leap
came with a slash to the throat of Puteh,
who back-somersaulted, fell dead,
made me pay.
Outside, boys with long-handled tweezers
tweezed butts for re-rolling,
and selling or giving away.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem