A beaming light on a naked street
like the city's torch bearer
scooping the earth for a doozie
with rabid consciousness and vigilance.
The muse of a watchman
guarding the city gate with his sword
survives a seldom attack at midnight
and finally woke up on the city side.
I am the custodian of chronicles
filling the drums of history
with our dossiers and narratives
the keeper of the dorp.
As busy as a bee
a journalist is a ceaseless being
spying and stinging the earth
with his pen and flashlight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem