IF ONE COULD FIGHT DEATH,
I WOULD PUT ON SEVEN BOXERS,
FOURTEEN TROUSERS,
TEN SINGLETS,
SEVENTEEN SHIRTS,
WITH A SCISSORS ON MY LEFT HAND,
I WOULD CUT HIM INTO PIECES,
BURN HIS FLESH,
PULL OFF MY CLOTHES,
WEAR HIS CLOTHES,
THEN TRANSFORM INTO AN ANGEL,
AND FLY AWAY.
THAT BASTARDIZED THIEF.
nonsense but meaningful poem.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem