Not that I'm alone on the run, up on erroneous deck,
the etymologist that I am always finds grief in places
redolent of loons' lore, of blames for us emissaries
swotting and knotting blunders of cartography.
No, I cannot hide, nor ever wish to, that I stink
of the spicy East of cloves and cinnamon,
and thrill at apes' startled cries and all that bluster
a lot from claimants' clan in the voyaging West.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem