this is what we
do
gratis et amore
we sing
without getting something
in return
there is no money
in poetry
they always say that
art is purposeless
and those who indulge in it
are damned
to eternity
but here we are
masochists in our own right
pains from hammers
right into our head
blasting
exploding
as always as we reap
all our
fourths of Julys
gratis et amore.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem