It hurt him when their hurt was big,
The play of wining the food was to dig,
As if dug were the drunkards,
Face it the dragging creatures
Came along with seasons
That mustard was too strong for the reasons.
It rehearsed the sinful looting of his life,
The stand of ill-treatment was like a knife.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem