Process
What are life-after life?
I cannot talk of soul except how,
Falls in love, has the gut and drive.
Body is a mushroom of some sort.
It, smells rotten fish; after days
Picked, taken far, from home.
As food it, tastes great
Sure if right processed
When fresh, a painting on the wall
Amusing for research, lab and hall.
Smells shit if left in a fridge; for a week.
I therefore have question: “What are we? ”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem