as usual
the morning is swindled
upon the
intricacies of the
labyrinthine
syllables
the feet are impatient
for the walk
tramples upon a
lost cockroach and
kills it without
mercy
now the odor of
foulness spreads in the
enclosed room
and finally takes its revenge
upon a
cruel writer
the fat in you
triumphs
and the interrogative
is
- - 'who cares? '
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem