Even witches return,
To straddle their dusting brooms.
Preparing another round of disgust,
With personal strikes and offenses.
Prehaps if given enough room,
To ignite from the bowels...
Of their own gloom,
To fly away.
Maybe the stench left,
Will not be consumed...
Or noticed to associate,
With one!
As cheap and choking perfume,
Does to everyone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem