he promised to stop writing
poems,
waste of time he says
he breaks promises he has time to waste
so much time because the words keep coming
and it is giving him
all the pleasures
and when he reads what he had written last night
the following morning
when everyone is still asleep and when the kitchen does not have
any sound
of a fried egg or a whistling pot
he feels the hunger again
and there he is
eating poetry for breakfast
munching the words
chewing what he is in there
brewing
like strong coffee
that soon makes his heart palpitate
like drums
of the natives
recently capturing their first human meal
with all these facts at hand
how can he ever stop?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
yes, he, the poet can not stop composing poems...it gives pleasure