Does it fester
Like a sore?
Does it stink
Like old doors?
My route is rotten
Like a light backpack.
It sags behind,
Feeling downright rude.
The journey is a law of life,
Light is at theatrical ends,
Life embodied sore living,
Not of dramatic reoccurrence.
Fools of the sword are upon
The road like a stinking talk.
It festers in the mind,
The mind has spoken.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem