My mother
keeps the promised yogurt of
paradise in the refrigerator.
Pigs resurrect in ice.
A peasant enters the pigsty.
In waders
he feels blood and warm guts.
Airplane flies above his backyard.
Not a sign of wander
could be seen
on his face.
Martin Luther King:
Martin Luther King.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem