Thunder rumbles through the mouth,
For giants behave in appropriate ways;
Rustling leaves of the brown mud collect
At their feet, a low growl is stated at the return
Of the giant of giants, the ill man of few signs.
Raising an excitement, he beats the belly
Like the fulsome man of work, walk and wine.
To the environment he stains the sun,
To the clouds of greater sound is the thunder
Of the one who acts so soundly in stupor.
Why does he emphasise the warriors?
Where are the fast-paced hitters of height?
One giant is enough to hide a lecturer
Who bites his food with words of fun,
Turning us into clever gigantic thinkers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem