Soaping away nights stale breath,
Sleepy eyes blinking in the light
Of the day, staring back wearily.
The machete cuts a solitary path
Under the shaving foam
Hiding the evidence.
The air is fresh, too fresh for comfort
The stale beer gone too soon
Steam hangs thickly in the air.
Swirling mists in old time
Steaming up the mirror
While to dog pines for its food.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
splendid poem on the morning ritual.