The Stomach, gnashing muscles
grouching its habitual dismissal,
inspite of its fiery, fervent fidelity,
of the scheduled ration, deprived.
The scavenger is sympathetic
but how could he be not at all?
But some days like luck is scarce,
detained in his idle post, lurking.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem