Rough edges of the pen shrill my mouth of the month,
Amalgamation of a product worth competing for;
The foreign enemy resides in the clung pencil,
As straight sides of the square clamber into shapes
We have pride in, deciding and consisting offerings
We simply defy.
This month the morbid death defends the tongue
And the throat for its worthiness.
A pen engages with the pencil to make progress
And hint at victory.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem