The circle of bread happens to us in reality,
I call mine a bagel, you call yours something;
Rolls I withstand til the end of Time,
The differently baked food is always mine.
The real cooks have gin and all the wandering
In the kitchen, like the ones that do a job.
May we extract rolls and loaves from their hands
As we have from our predecessors, like that.
The circles of bread are finer to behold
Than the ones of stickiness and dough.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem