Oh ye metamorphic foe,
Whence nostrils flow;
Then forth the haze descends,
To where the breath depends;
Next the drip doth start,
From nasals doth depart;
Oh so little drip is cast,
Yet chokes and gags, great to gasp;
Only after much prolong,
Is any hope that it be gone;
Only once it congeals,
Be relief from how it feels.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem