Above the mire, the bamboo house
Stands oil-rig proud in choppy seas,
Whelps yapping, snapping at the legs,
Sunk deep and stained in old disease.
Sometimes, on the fattened wind,
I catch a filthy hint of much
That horrifies and warms and shocks,
And shudder when I want to touch.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem