The claws, veins and roots of a brown panther dwindled, slashed
and broken by another male, when they fought over a female.
What could compensate for the dark red blood?
When you get the chance to turn grey, teeth half-gone,
will that once-in-a-lifetime glimpse catch up with us
as we fold and roll a cheap cigar,
lying back on a rumpled beach chair,
looking at girls who frolick and fade in the evening dust,
like oysters powderised and blown away by the breezes?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem