Poetry soup,
I fell into these lettered
Pool
You serve me food with
A sliver spoon
Under your gaijantic crystal
Roof
Here is the symbol of
Your golden boot.
Accept my tune
On behalf of numerous
Flutes
You are groomed to duplicate
The truth
In lyrical mood.
I congratulate your
Healthy tooth
With no two nor infected
With flu.
Poetry soup,
These full moon
Beside the junction
Of poets room,
Your brain recognize
Good,
Here is my salute
These afternoon,
Composing on a
Wooden stool
Painted with sky
Blue.
The tongue makes the
great cook
as you teast and
recommend every perfect
food.
Your spice is forever bright
Continue to shine
Forgetting the night,
I was informed you
Live in the sky.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem