When I chose to pitch this tent
Beyond these forbidden limits, I sense
A sweaty embrace of a lonely realm
This bewitching little, little cares now I crave
Yet, old paternal pledges forbade
Flocking filthy trails amidst phony folks
Lost in the rhythm of vicious lots
Serving a master I do not know
Who the dump my head tossed
The path of repose I do not know
Even while bringing the sky low
The escape of this rain now I long
For, fleeing from the snare’s greasy clutch
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A traveling caravan trying to have the rain wash the stench of us away..it is how I would travel...most excellent idea...thank you..iip