Syntax comes at a sultry price,
a strange, catchy roll of the dice,
it could make you proud to wear your name,
or crick your head, angled down in shame.
The luck of chance can't be more shallow,
but indeed a turn of phrase is hard to swallow,
till dusk comes over the rising sun,
and the mind garbles language to only one.
Mixed in with the sweet treated words,
come those that wear false murr,
which when you speak them don't stand the test,
those that couldn't possibly stand the test.
Be careful, think before you speak,
or else your conscience will quickly leak.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem