The druid,
Crunches bow of horn, mix es in her chips.
She plays his harp on strings, still in song, once young.
Emboldened shadows stay, with stones of soap.
Wash the skin a wolf shape in a clear star night, in rest.
Drum of mind is never hollow dance of fire, is sold a breast.
The roman god then went undressed, inside to find.
Mead in cup of Pan washed bamboos claim to, Li Po lean.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem