Clouds scud across the sky,
deserts will be drenched,
rain in torrents
is the probable reply.
Near its end
a loser scorpion poses.
Everywhere around
a succulent warrior's sight.
Prick my finger,
O' warrior friend,
on the D-day
I want to draw a scarlet line.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem