A mongrel dilapidated by the myths of Chilinda
Strolls in the heavily infested fields of muringa
With a troubling muzzle on his face
Dodges from one end to another in search of peace
I cant quite put a finger on his filthy mirth
All I know is his dream is a gloomy myth
Which stride in perfection to give him stress
As his life after the female has been a mess
I have heard all about the guests
Which tend to make all the fates
But this one is more like a big deal
By replication has made him idle
Petite has he become
For his phantom is to come
To shun away all his problems
Of a virus spread through copulation
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem