It's the holes where the energy seeps, that's
The misdirection. Until they're closed, rats
Will scurry from pavement to road and crack
The treasure that lies enclosed, make a back
For the forearm and lay welts on the nose;
An eye for an eye, the flakiness of a rose;
For the lady who thinks she's the cat's whiskers
Whatever you suppose.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem