A dipstick likes to rest in oil,
air does reside in tyres.
All plants are anchored in the soil
and flames make up all fires.
I ask you, though, why man's small pin
is not a simple thing.
At night he sometimes wanders in
and leaves a pleasant sting.
But, in the day he hangs between
two duffle bags with wrinkles.
And there he sleeps. Is only seen
occasionally, for sprinkles.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem