inside this womb,
a woe of woes,
poetry has shined
days without number,
so i employ her
and tell of worlds to come,
the first one is
a stiff breast
in the power of a suckling,
so shall poetry
be to me;
a breast flowing with
honey and milk,
the second world
bows at the
gibber of a crawling
toddler,
poetry shall be
the knees and hands
i will mercilessly
bruise but harden,
in the third world
i shall learn to call
poetry slave of slaves,
with my gibber,
with my babble and nonsense,
i will teach poetry
to be there in my miserable
hours,
finally, when i've finally
overcome these,
in my teenage years
i shall make her
my scapegoat
and blame her for
my desires and
crushes lost,
but when i die
i will cry her forgiveness,
poetry shall be
flesh of flesh
and bone of bones,
etched onto my heart,
i shall present her
to my maker as
my reasonable service!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem