The small television was on us and them,
It could make more for the years than dust
On the books and rules of the pen.
Writing for its sacredness compiles a larger area,
In the attention of the hearts around.
One small machine tends for laughter,
Comedies fling and flow to frighten and subdue
The real acts of a day that admonishes
And reprimands.
The once appreciated excuses are afloat
Like a drug of the venom and poison and wound.
The real blood spells like the love of the world,
Knights of blending and kindness
Lambaste the ironies of our society,
Trying to see a kind man and woman together.
One is better and one is mine,
The fuel of the bars.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem